


Kiss of the Vulcan

by sugarbucket24



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Actions scenes are redacted, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Angst, Because who can translate Jet Fucking Li into words?, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by a Movie, Jim Kirk Needs Hugs, M/M, Mpreg, One day I'll write the sequel, Poor Jim Kirk, Protective Spock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret Agent Spock, Trained Killer!Spock, Unreliable Geographical Knowledge of USA, bonded as children, hooker!Kirk, no one!, thats right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarbucket24/pseuds/sugarbucket24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiss of the Dragon' AU with a K/S twist.  Framed for murder, Spock is trapped in San Francisco where he comes across an abused, young hooker, James Kirk.  Kirk is his only witness, his only hope to clear his name but James isn't going anywhere without his daughter.  Warnings for possible OOCs, references to past MPreg, non-con, drugs etc.  Also, hokey pokey Vulcan voodoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Earth

* * *

**-Kiss of the Vulcan-**

_By Sugarbucket_

 

**-Chapter One: Welcome to Earth-**

Of all species, cultures and races in the known galaxy, perhaps it would be fair to say that none are as secretive as Vulcans.  Their rituals are not only shrouded in mystery, they are completely obscured by it.  Almost nothing is known about this reticent species to outsiders, except that they are a logical, calm race of beings, despite their physical advantages.  Though it would never appear so to the casual observer, they guard their privacy with a somewhat alarming ferocity.  There are many aspects of their culture that an outsider may never be allowed to know.  The much undisclosed mating ritual, Pon Farr, seems positively common knowledge when compared to something else, something much more jealously guarded. 

The nerve pinch, occasionally used by Vulcans as a way of defusing an ugly situation without resorting to violence, is widely renowned among many cultures.  It's spoken of in hushed whispers and awe struck stories.  Though nothing much is ever discussed further than that.  Vulcans are peaceful, knowledge seeking beings and the gossip runs short after a while.  Klingons, Orions and most especially humans make far better scandalous than a race of wise, contemplative Vulcans. 

The truth is that this nerve pinch is merely the tip of the iceberg, indicative of a much deeper knowledge of nerve clusters hit with pinpoint accuracy.  If ever it is spoken of, (accidentally without question, for no alien outside of Vulcan has any idea of its existence) it is stupidly mislabelled as the Vulcan Death Grip.  It refers to a Vulcan ability to kill, simply by pinching a certain nerve cluster in a certain area of the body.  No-one knows more than that, no-one truly believes it even exists.  Vulcans do not lie, after all, and they have expressly denied ever having knowledge of such a thing, let alone exclusive use of it.

But those select few Vulcans, privy to high level council access and expert training, know that those drunken slurs and tales are inadvertently correct. 

It's called the kiss of the Vulcan.  

* * *

 

"First time to earth?" the attendant asked, somewhat lazily; as though he could not possibly have cared any less.  He looked pale, exhausted and bored to a dangerous degree.  He peered at the PADD and then at the Vulcan standing before him. 

"Yes," the Vulcan answered simply.  He wondered if all security on this planet was this lax.  He'd been on the surface of San Francisco for exactly one hour, forty two minutes, six seconds and already he felt obligated to write to seven organisations, most of them security and immigration, to point out some alarming concerns.

"Purpose of your visit?" the attendant queried again, slurring slightly with obvious fatigue. 

The Vulcan leaned in closer, unable to fully understand or even to believe that such ridiculously simple questions were being asked. 

The attendant rolled his eyes a little and said, louder than before, "Business or pleasure?" as though speaking to an uneducated, ignorant alien.  The Vulcan supposed he daily encountered enough of them to _almost_ justify his rudeness. 

"Pleasure," he answered, waiting for something a little more intelligent to be asked. 

But no, that seemed to conclude the security questions.  The attendant slid his card into the machine on his desk and then back in to the Vulcan's PADD, handing it to him without another word.

Trying very hard not to let incredulity become a preformed notion throughout his entire experience on the planet, he took back the PADD and went on his way.  It was no wonder that his services were required. 

The city itself was tolerable, if only because of the fascinating structures and history surrounding the place.  He suspected the people who actually resided there had no real idea of just what an interesting city it really is.  As he looked out of the window, inside a cab driven by the most irritating human he has thus far encountered, the Vulcan thought that it would not be a wasted journey here, even if it was not wholly centric to the assignment.

A particularly shrill note, wailed by the cab driver, unwilling drew his attention away from the scenery. He breathed deeply and allowed a fresh wave of calm wash over him, exerting effort so that he would not tar all humans with the same brush, as such.  They could not all be this irritating and uninhibited. 

"Do you like this music?" the driver asked, happy and relaxed in his own little world where he is obviously in tune and in time. He looked at the Vulcan in the rear view, expectantly.

And because the Vulcan would never consider such noise to be music, he felt no guilt whatsoever about nodding and answering, "Yes."

The area the cab was taking him to was a far less pleasant one than he should have liked, with particular reference to general hygiene; both moral and physical.  Yet, there was nothing to be done about it.  The quick exchange of credits was complete when they reached the specified destination.  The Vulcan stepped out quickly, assessing the situation to be something not unlike a proverb his mother had fondly utilised. 

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

It was a narrow street, more like an alleyway, that lead to the place he needed to be and it was most certainly not empty.  On each side of the street, were rows of young boys and girls dressed in as little as possible, standing as provocatively as they could in what the Vulcan supposed was an attempt to appear alluring.  Thankfully he was well versed in the concept of prostitution so it wasn't a great shock.  Yet it remained painfully distasteful and he would have intensely preferred not to have to walk past each and every one of them to get to his destination. 

They stared at him as he walked.  Some winked or cooed, some simply gave him a once over before turning away, correctly dismissing him as a lost cause.  There were men patrolling the area, clearly not selling themselves, but keeping a close eye on those who were.  The shops were dark and uninviting; mostly selling exotic alien foods and supplies.  The narrowness of the street meant he could not successfully avoid overhearing most of the conversations taking place between _buyers_ and _sellers_. 

"One thousand credits, take it or leave it," a haughty looking Orion woman said with a distinct air of routine.  Her hair was magnificently red and she wore thin, leather strips that left most of her brilliant green skin exposed.  "You want to slum it, go a little further down the street."

"Any _'don'ts'_?" the potential purchaser asked, already reaching into his jacket for his PADD.

She shook her head, spilling curls everywhere.  "None," she proclaimed, reaching behind her to retrieve her stick from an extremely narrow strip of leather around her midriff.  She handed it to the man who made the transfer and then handed her back the stick.  They left together without another word.

The Vulcan forced down a sense of general revulsion and continued making his way towards the small, inconspicuous shop, claiming to sell Vulcan food and ingredients.  The Vulcan himself seriously doubted the veracity of such a claim, even though he knew what the place really was.  He took out his PADD and scrolled to find the picture of the small object sitting in the shop window.  A china Sehlat, rearing back on its hind legs.  This was the place.

Inside it was quiet, unexpectedly quaint and smelled ever so faintly of home.  Vulcan spices, badly diluted and poorly chopped, filtered into the air and somewhere outside was the sound of a wind chime.  It reminded him of the one his mother hung in the garden. 

A human man and an elderly Vulcan men were speaking in rapid fire Standard, towards the back of the shop.  Negotiating price, as far as the Vulcan could make out though a lot of what they were saying made little sense.  Vernacular and such. 

The old Vulcan looked up and immediately seemed to see the younger for what he was. 

"Can I help you?" he asked, almost abruptly.  His accent was dulled by the rough edges of fluent Standard from so many years living in such a placement. 

The Vulcan held up his PADD, showing the Sehlat from the front window.  It seemed to confirm the Old Vulcan's suspicions.  He nodded and went back to the oddly literal negotiation of price.  When it seemed concluded to his satisfaction, he glanced at the younger Vulcan and said, "You can put your things over there."

The case, which appeared to contain only neatly folded clothes, actually contained a hidden phaser.  The Vulcan marvelled at the total lack of security from a planet that boasted so much, so loudly.

"How long are you planning on staying?" the elderly Vulcan enquired, carefully watching as the younger armed the phaser and set it to kill. 

"Not very long."

* * *

 

The hotel was lavish and grand; glittering and golden.  The Vulcan was too busy gauging security measures, potential exits and threats to notice that it was gaudy and tawdry in the worst kind of way, but by no means inexpensive. 

He headed straight for the reception desk, fully aware that he was being watched by several people. 

"Message for Mr. Smith," he said smoothly to the receptionist. 

"Smith?" the man echoed, giving the Vulcan a somewhat disbelieving look. 

The Vulcan didn't so much as blink.  "Yes."

The man made a big show of searching for it, as though he didn't have it two inches away from where his hand had rested moments ago.  He handed it to the Vulcan with a friendly smile.

Inside it, was a one worded instruction.

' _Bar'_

The Vulcan turned away and headed in that direction, wondering if the man thought there was any chance he had not heard him say, "He's here," into the comm device on the inside of his jacket.

The bar itself was small and empty, which made it easy to spot just exactly who in particular was watching him. 

"Anything to drink, sir?" the bartender asked him.

"Water," he replied.

"Sparkling or flat."

The Vulcan gave him a look that was in itself indicative of his choice of drink, but humans were slow and so he replied simply, "Flat." 

Only a few seconds later, a man dressed in a Starfleet uniform sat down beside the Vulcan and sighed.  "Last one for the road," he declared.

"Beer?" bartender asked, politely.

"Oh yes," he sighed as though nothing would have given him greater pleasure.  He then faced the Vulcan with a friendly smile.  "So how are you, pal?"

The Vulcan immediately identified him as a helmsman, but only by uniform.  The man was too old to still be in such a position.  He didn't quite carry himself the way a true helmsman would have and if indeed he was on shore leave, why was he alone?  He nodded by way of reply.

"Just having a little pre take off take off," the man went on, without being prompted.  "Gives new meaning to flying the friendly skies.  Can I buy you a drink?  A serious drink?" he asked, indicating to the Vulcan's lonely, unused glass of water. 

"No, thank you."

The man did not turn away, as anyone else would have done by now.  "Where you from?" he asked, as though it wasn't obvious.

"Vulcan."

"Ah, of course.  My favourite.  I love Vulcan, I love the _food_."  This, the Vulcan seriously doubted.  The man was operating on some ridiculous notion that being this friendly was obviously the best way to remain inconspicuous.  "It's the best.  All those amazing things you do with fruit and veg, cuts out the need for all that meat, huh?  Not like us barbarians, I mean there we are, eating anything that moves, eh?"

The Vulcan waited patiently for the incompetent human to feel secure enough to pass on whatever message he had to give.

"First time on Earth?" he went on, drinking his beer from the glass.

"Yes."

"You're gonna have the time of your life," he said, reaching over the Vulcan to retrieve a bar snack.  And as he did so, he _finally_ whispered, "Men's toilets.  Now."

After a predictable charade in the male toilets (what _was_ this planet's definition of security and stealth?) the Vulcan was taken to see the man he had come all this way for.

Admiral Richard Komack was not exactly what the Vulcan had expected.  He was currently beating a smaller, dark haired human to death, for one thing.  A nearby lackey spoke up, indicating the Vulcan's presence and Komack looked up, unruffled and almost relaxed.  His knuckles were raw and covered in the almost dead man's blood. 

"Ah," he practically purred.  Then he added dismissively, "Deal with this.”  A tall, well-built Klingon to his right came and picked up the mangled human being with one hand.  There were two Klingons, similarly built and with the exact same eyes.  Brothers, perhaps.  Without further instruction, the older Klingon proceeded to hang the man up by his collar and the other delivered a blow that snapped his neck clean in half.  The man fell down, dead to the floor of the kitchen.  The entire scene would have made a lesser being queasy, but the Vulcan merely steeled himself and focused on the matter at hand.

Komack offered his hand, seemingly in the traditional earth style greeting but when the Vulcan offered his in return he clarified, "Phaser please.  You won't need it.  You're safe with us."

Of this, the Vulcan had doubts, but handed it over anyway.

"So," Komack said.  "You came all the way from Vulcan to keep an eye on us?"

"To help you," the Vulcan clarified, handing over his PADD for verification.

"Yes of course, to help us, since we are so incompetent.  Because what is our miserable history compared to yours?" Komack asked, a nasty glint in his dark eyes.

The Vulcan was not entirely sure if the man was even employing sarcasm, it was always hard to tell with humans. 

"S'chn T'gai Spock," he read aloud, mispronouncing several of the vowels incorrectly as most humans did. "Since we have to work together I don't want to spend half the day killing your name.  Got a nickname?  No?  Well then, I'll say the only word I can pronounce.  Spock." He finally offered the hand in the expected manner and, unnecessarily introduced himself. "Komack.  Admiral Komack."

After only a fractional amount of hesitation, Spock shook it.

"Welcome to Earth, Spock."

* * *

 

Embarrassment was not something Vulcans embraced, or even acknowledged as a basic principle.  Certain types of attention, however – that was something of great important to the High Vulcan Council.  Attention drawn to the wrong area of something could be devastating.

Which was why they had sent their very best agent to remove the threat of _unwanted attention._

Even a species as logical and peaceful as Vulcans had its fair share of bad apples. 

Salkor was a reputed merchant before he made the elevation to intergalactic arms dealer.  He was short, somewhat weak breed of Vulcan who represented a great deal of potential negative attention with regards to the integrity of the Vulcan High Council.  If word got out that a _Vulcan_ of all species was selling ion based weaponry to enemy forces, during a supposed ceasefire. . . .well that would certainly constitute unwanted attention. 

Spock's assignment was not especially complex, yet the timing had to be almost perfect.  There had to be sufficient evidence of the trade, first of all.  Salkor was a senseless, indulgent Vulcan but the men who worked for him were not.  Some of them were ex-agents themselves and would be alert for the possibility of a trap.  Spock had to scrutinize and record the entire exchange between Salkor and the human clients whose identities remained unknown to Spock at this point. 

After a satisfactory amount of evidence had been attained, Spock would ' _assist'_ Komack and his subordinates in making the arrest.  Spock would take Salkor back to Vulcan, where he would be processed unofficially and Komack would not register the offence with the human authorities or Starfleet – thus avoiding any potential acts of war.  The entire incident had to go off without the slightest hitch, so much depended upon it.  The timing, potential variables…Spock had accounted for everything, every possible contingency.

Or so he had thought. 

* * *

 

' _This,'_ James Kirk decided, _'was a terrible idea.'_

Well, really.  That went completely without saying.  The evidence was overwhelming.  First of all, his jeans were way too tight.  Yes, he was supposed to be seductive and irresistible but seriously?  There wasn't going to be much of anything _left_ to seduce with at this rate.  Secondly, the hotel was all wrong.  Expensive, but not for the quality of the experience.  More for the _privacy_ of your own experiences.  He knew most of the people scattered around the lobby, knew who they worked for.  The same person he did.  Not a good sign.

And thirdly - and this really should have been the warning that forced him to say no to this terrible idea - he was with Gary Mitchell. 

Things had a way of going horribly, irreversibly wrong when he was with Gary _fucking_ Mitchell.

Gary, for his part, looked stunning.  But then he usually did.  Clothes cleaner than his Jim's, hair much cleaner.  Just cleaner in general and in better shape too.  Still taking the drugs, of course.  Funny how doing something as respectable and upright as trying to get off drugs could make your awful life even worse.  But James Kirk had long ago stopped trying to make sense of the universe.  What rights did a hooker have to existentialist debate?

He realised all too late that he was shaking.  It could easily have been the fourth bullet point in the ever growing list of _Why This Is The Worst Fucking Idea Ever_ , but he shoved it down ruthlessly and focused on the task at hand.  He had the whole scenario memorised perfectly, but he felt sick; really, physically sick.  His body was demanding another hypo, just one more little hypo to get him through this and then…then he could quit.  For real this time, for good. 

' _Get a fucking grip,_ ' he told himself.  ' _Come on, Jim.  You can_ _do this_ _.'_

Grant was waiting for them both inside the hotel.  He came just into view as they fully entered and it did nothing to soothe Jim's churning stomach.  He looked furious enough to punch them both there and then which; he easily could have, but even he wasn't that stupid.  He was a thick, muscle bound kind of man.  Well built, but getting a little flabby around the edges.  He had nasty small eyes and a non-existent temper. 

"What fuckin' time you call this?" he hissed as soon as they were in earshot.  "Don't keep me fuckin' waiting, you got me?"

Instantly, a thousand snappy comebacks came flooding into Jim's mind hopefully but he smashed them all down.  He was used to doing that by now and at the end of the day, having a broken jaw wasn't going to make his life any easier. 

Grant shoved past them both irritably.  "Alright, let's go."

The sudden action seemed to jolt yet another bolt of nausea through Jim's exhausted body and he faltered for a moment.  Gary sensed this, touching his face briefly.

"Shh, baby," he whispered as though that was soothing somehow.  Jim did nothing as Gary wet his fingers a little and placed them on Jim's own.  Comfort, reassurance even to an outsider.  Jim knew better.  "Come on."

Grant's tension vanished and he melted into a pleasant smile as he headed towards the short, squat Vulcan sitting uncomfortably in one of the lobby chairs.  "Hey there," he said easily to the Vulcan who looked up, his eyes brightening with interest as he surveyed Jim and Gary.  Grant turned mid-step and with a horribly false smile of his own, he said, "Smile, boys - _smile_."

_Just a job.  Just another favour.  Just another few hours._

Jim tried to shut himself off as much as possible, but it was difficult.  Without the drugs, he was feeling too much of everything.  He was almost dizzy with the pressure of maintaining his smile.

"Nice to meet you at last," said one of the Vulcan lackeys, extending a hand towards Grant who shook it with vigour. 

"Welcome to earth," he was saying, all ease and friendliness.  "These are some friends of mine.  Gary.  Jim."

Jim smiled in what he prayed was a pleasing manner.  Gary went straight in for the kill, taking the shorted Vulcan's hand and _kissing it_.  The five lackeys surrounding the short, fat one all zeroed in on the action.  Gary knew very well what he was doing, of course. 

"Hey cool it," Grant warned, casually.  "Hey fuckin' cool it, alright?"  As if he hadn't specifically _told_ both Gary and Jim about Vulcan sensitive points.  Gary paid no attention to the entirely false warning and sat down on the fat Vulcan's lap, enraptured with the prize before him.  Jim's stomach lurched dangerously again.

A terrible fucking idea, indeed. 

* * *

 

"I think," Spock said into the discreet comm device. "We have a situation."

A most unexpected one at that.  The two young boys accompanying the human dealer presented a problem for Spock in more ways than one.  Both of them prostitutes, clearly.  One seemed remarkably ill, though only to the Vulcan's heightened senses.  The other was busily wrapping himself around Salkor and purring into his neck.  Spock had noticed the kiss to the back of Salkor's fingers and it worried him for reasons he could not immediately place.  But then, he supposed, people in that line of business needed to be well prepared for any potential _client_. 

"The two boys.  Do you see them?" he said.  Despite himself, Spock felt revolted at Salkor's weakness, no small part brought on by how young both boys looked. 

"Yes, I do," Komack replied evenly through the device.

The boy sitting practically astride Salkor, leaning in closer and whispered, "Want to go to heaven?"

Salkor didn't even hesitate.  "Let's go."  They stood in unison, the weaker boy taking a few seconds to rise.  "I'm going up," Salkor announced to his subordinates.

"But sir, the meeting…" they tried to protest.

"I've beamed down to this repugnant little planet for a _falhaek_ of a contact – he can wait for _me!"_ Salkor snapped.

The slightly younger boy approached the older one.  Though Spock couldn't see his face at all, he looked as though he was about to faint.  His knees seemed on the verge of giving out at any moment. 

"Gary, I don't know if I can do this," he pleaded weakly and under his breath.  Only because Spock was listening so intently, did he detect it. 

"Don't worry, baby," the older boy replied, almost excitedly.  "Let Daddy run the show, huh?"

Salkor appeared behind them, smiling in anticipation.  "Let's go to heaven."

Spock watched them go for a few seconds, his stomach turning ever so slightly at the tremble evident in the younger one's demeanour. 

"He is leaving with the two boys," Spock stated neutrally.  "What should I do?"

"Come up," Komack sounded amused. "And enjoy the show."

* * *

 

The suite was huge; obviously the most expensive the hotel offered.  Gary was clearly impressed, barging through the double doors all smiles and cockiness.  Jim was thinking longingly about what kind of double bed a room like this one would have.  He imagined just curling up in it for five…no, ten minutes and just sleeping.  He hadn't slept in a real bed for over six months and he was starting to forget what it felt like. 

"Wow!" Gary exclaimed, immediately striding over to the music system, scrolling through a list of contemporary songs until he found one to his liking. 

Salkor ( _was that his name? Something along those lines_ ) made himself comfortable on the sofa, while his Vulcan bodyguards gave Jim and Gary unrepentantly suspicious looks.

"Sir, we need to check the room to eliminate the possibility of threats."

"One minute," Salkor allowed impatiently.

Gary had found a song he could dance shamelessly to and without even waiting for the other Vulcans to finish their search of the room, he began to do exactly that.  He flung his jacket at Salkor, smiling _the smile_ and said, "Let's party, big boy."

He looked so sexy, so glowing with confidence and section.  Jim felt about as sexy as a pregnant wildebeest.  Just looking at Gary gave him motion sickness.  But Gary was all about the job; one of those people who in such a profession, genuinely shone.  Jim kinda thought it said a lot about him; that he considered being a hooker (and worse) a career.  And if it was a career, then Gary was employee of the fucking month. 

He danced his way over to Jim, grabbing his hips and pulling them into his own.  "C'mon baby," he sighed, as if he couldn't tell the difference between Jim and Salkor.  "Let's have some fun."

He slid to his knees, provocative to the extreme as always. 

"Gary, I don't feel so good," Jim whispered as another powerful roll of nausea threatened to wash up into his throat. 

Gary popped up, almost comically.  "Wanna fix?" he asked brightly, extending his tongue to show a small blue and yellow pill.  Nothing but a popper, really.  Not like the hypos… _nothing_ like them at all, but it still would have taken the edge off. 

"I told you, I quit!" Jim said, somewhat desperately.

"More for me," Gary said, unconcerned as he turned back to Salkor.

The dancing really only got worse while Jim sort of…stood there, feeling more like a piece of furniture by the minute.  Why, _why_ did this job require both of them?  Gary could easily have come alone to do this.  ' _Christ,'_ Jim thought.  _'Just_ _look_ _at him.'_

He wormed his way between Salkor's knees, staying in time with the music perfectly.  Then he shoved his index finger into Salkor's mouth, swirling it around for good measure.  The rest of his clothes came off, leaving nothing but a very tight pair of black briefs.  He displayed an extensive dragon tattoo twisting its way down his back.  He was grinding up against Salkor now and Jim could no longer simply stand there like he was part of the furniture. 

He tried to shut down everything apart from basic motor controls, but it was no good.  He felt sick to the core of his bones and no amount of numbing himself was going to work this time.  He slipped off his coat slowly, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

Gary turned suddenly to the glass table and without warning swept everything off of it, onto the floor. Then he was on the table, poised like a cat on all fours and in his god damned element.

Jim saw the line of coke, saw him break the popper over it right before Gary dived into it nose first.  The sickness gave a particularly powerful surge and bile rose up in his throat. 

"Minute's up!  Everyone out!" Salkor choked out, obviously able to wait no longer.

"But sir, we did not complete our search…" one of his guards tried to explain.

" **Get out**!"

"Very well sir."

The other Vulcans left.  Their exit seemed to seal Jim's fate.

* * *

 

Spock made his way quietly and carefully to the headquarters of the operation.  A hotel room, used to host the necessary surveillance equipment.  It was on the same floor as Salkor's, just a few doors down.

As he walked, Spock's mind was uneasy.  There was something very…off about this whole scenario.  He couldn't place it without resorting to something he had trained himself to ignore; gut instincts.

Life as a half Vulcan - half human hybrid was not easy.  His superiors had nothing but the very lowest of expectations for him as a child.  This had always made him want to succeed even more.  His excellence had risen high above any other child of his age.  He had endured countless incidents in which his peers had insulted him so as to observe him react in an emotional manner. 

When he was sixteen, something…something had happened to him that he could not explain.  He didn't even like to remember it fully.  After he had recovered from it, it sent him into a state of sheer, unbreakable determination to reign control over himself and his emotions from then on.  When he had been offered a place in the VSA, he had been reminded once more of how _unexpected_ his excellence was.  It had been the final straw.  He accepted an outside offer instead; to become an agent trained in handing intergalactic assignments and operations to maintain the security and integrity of the High Vulcan Council and Vulcan.  A Special Agent, of sorts. 

His decision to pursue such a life was not born of any sense of love for the Council in any way.  It was instead rooted in the need to shape his own life, explore his strength and become the best of himself.  He travelled constantly which he honestly enjoyed.  Earth being a rare exception, he generally liked seeing new places and experiencing new things. 

In this area, he occasionally regretted his rejection of Starfleet Academy.  But what had happened to him at a young age – the inexplicable phenomenon – had left him with a deep need to control himself, discipline himself beyond what even Vulcan's advocated.  His training to become what he was now had taken almost six years to complete.  He had been operational as an agent for three and a half years now and was considered the highest ranking agent in his field.  The training he had undergone had been intense in all ways.  Rather than teaching him to remove all traces of emotion, he had been taught how to sternly control and utilise it.  Working with other species meant reacting to them and their ever varied and volatile emotions.  Spock had excelled in all areas of his training, except this one.  His emotions were not always as controlled as they should have been.  They never had been. 

He walked past Salkor's minions, mindful of his mental shields.  They stared at him as he passed, blank yet obviously sceptical of his presence in this hotel. 

He heard music, and other less distinguishable sounds, coming from Salkor's room.  He barely suppressed a spike of disgust towards the Vulcan inside it.

* * *

 

Oh God.  Oh holy Jesus fucking Christ this was a nightmare.  Gary was now beneath Salkor, eyes heavy lidded with lust – Jim couldn't tell if it was even fake at this point – his legs wrapped tight around Salkor's shoulders.

The bile in Jim's throat burned and his mouth flooded with saliva in sick anticipation.  Gary shot Jim a _'come-over-here-and-join-the-_ _fun_ ' look.  That was enough for Jim.

"I…I have to go to the bathroom, OK?" Jim said, managing not to throw up as he spoke. 

"Yes," Salkor said, face flushed green with a big, lusty smile all over it.  "Come back soon."

"Sure," Jim said.  He was so relieved that he flashed a stunning smile at the Vulcan before he turned and fled to the bathroom. 

He barely made it to the toilet before the sick was in his mouth.  His chest heaved, his whole body hurt and his throat burned as if he had swallowed acid.  He gasped for air, trying to calm himself down but he felt like crying.  He remembered being sick like this, many years ago, for very different reasons.

The music in the other room was a reminder that he would have to go back in there soon and do his job.  Another little piece of his soul and for what?

How had this become his life?

More importantly, how would he ever get out of it?

* * *

 

Spock entered the control room, filled with screens displaying what was happening inside the room a few doors down, in detail. Komack was drinking a cup of coffee, watching impassively as the torrid scene unfolded.

"Hey Spock, just in time," he said, with a grin.

"This was not part of the plan," Spock stated.

"It is now," Komack waved off. "It's all under control. Don't worry; he'll do his thing and then we'll do ours."

Spock stared at the monstrous images before him, noticing something missing.

"Where is the other boy?" he asked, not able to see him in any of the holovids.

"Prettying up in the bathroom," Komack guessed, not taking his eyes off Salkor.

The sounds from the recordings were extremely realistic.  Spock could detect every staccato breath, every grunt and groan and slap of skin as the boy lowered himself down onto Salkor and began to ride him.

"You want to go to heaven?" the boy demanded, riding Salkor harder.

"Take me!" he groaned. "Take me to heaven!"

The gut instinct clenched, hard.  No…

The knife seemed to come from nowhere into the boy's hand. Spock saw it glint in the light.  Saw it rise, saw it fall.

He was already out of the door before Salkor could scream, but it was too late.  He ran flat out along the corridor where the other Vulcans were already waiting.  He traded blows with them quickly, unthinkingly.  It came naturally to him; blow to the throat, to the abdomen.  Simple incapacitation methods, nothing more.  He kicked down the door to see the boy standing over Salkor's bleeding body, knife raised triumphantly, about to finish the job. 

Spock tackled him to the floor, knocking the weapon from his hands. He snatched one of his wrists behind him and pinched a nerve there causing the muscle to freeze, as if chained.

"Let me go, you mother fucker!" the boy screamed. "What have you done?  Let me go!"

Salkor was covered in his own green blood, wheezing and gasping. The boy had managed to stab his heart with some accuracy.  When he saw Spock, he spoke to him in breathy, slurred Vulcan.

"He stabbed me, that…that bastard stabbed me!" he sobbed.

Spock replied in his mother tongue, "Stay calm."

He reached on either side of Salkor's neck, applying pressure to the nerves so as to render him gently unconscious.  There was a communicator on the desk, Spock headed straight for it, but before he could activate it, he sensed another's presence.

Komack, holding his phrased in one gloved hand.

"Stop surveillance," he said into his own comm device.

"He needs medical assistance," Spock told him, aware of Salkor's drying blood on his hands. 

"He doesn't want medical assistance," Komack said, pointing the phaser at Salkor. "He wants to go to heaven."

Salkor burned up in a matter of seconds, dead and then…gone.

"Richard!" the boy screamed from the floor. "Look what he did to me!"

Komack killed the boy also, without hesitation.

Spock stared at him, genius mind unable to comprehend what exactly had just happened.

"Why did you kill him?" Spock asked, almost calmly.

"The question," Komack replied, holding up the phaser. Spock's phaser. "Is why did _you_ kill him? Thanks for the help, Spock."

He had been betrayed and set up. 

Spock's mind went into autopilot.  Komack turned around for one second, one tiny moment of time to see his men joining him.

One second was all Spock needed.

He moved as fast as he could, too fast for a human to even see, and was out of the window before Komack had even looked back.

* * *

 


	2. In Hiding

**-Chapter Two: In Hiding-**

From the very beginning, Komack had known it was a bad idea to let the Vulcan get involved. All his years of learning the hard way when it came to trust had taught him one cast iron rule; if something is stronger and more intelligent than you and it doesn't try to kill you first…you're in trouble.

You didn't fuck with Vulcans, everyone knew that.  There was a reason they were an entirely peaceful race, simply because no-one in the entire galaxy was stupid enough to start shit with them.

Komack was most notably _not_ stupid.  He had spent a large portion of his life learning what it took to stay ahead in this game – a game that meant money, power and control.  A game that he could play and win, so long as he did not get too greedy.  The profit from his various schemes meant he was comfortable, meant he was on top, but it wasn't like he could go buy himself a planet somewhere and retire atop a mountain of gold.  He was careful, restrained, calculating.

But this deal… he'd gotten cocky.  Ion weaponry was advanced beyond anything the Federation or the Empire could lay claim to. It would revolutionize war across the galaxy, the Empire would pay _anything_ to have it and to keep the Federation from having it and vice versa.  His eyes had been wide as saucers when he'd realised just what kind of wealth would be offered for such technology.

So he hadn't really cared when the Vulcan High Council had offered an agent to oversee the assignment.  In fact, it had offered up an opportunity the likes of which had seemed a little too perfect at this time.  Here was an agent who could perfectly play the part of dead scapegoat.  Everything had been running smoothly; all according to plan.

Komack had been so sure he'd won that he'd turned away for a split second and everything had gone straight to hell.

Now he had a serious problem. A Vulcan witness was as good as empirical proof that the whole thing had been a set up to get the ion weaponry himself without being implicated. It would have looked like Salkor, disgraceful Vulcan that he was, had gotten himself killed by a hooker before he could make the deal. The Vulcans would want to cover it up, they wouldn't ask questions. Salkor was dead, the weapons were Komack's to sell (because really, an Admiral's salary these days was obscenely small) and the universe would be none the wiser.

Only now, he had a pissed off Vulcan agent running around San Francisco with his fucking eidetic memory and solid gold trustworthiness. The intergalactic authorities would believe the word of a Vulcan over an Admiral of Starfleet any day, and a simple meld with another Vulcan would confirm everything.  Komack was fucked unless he could find the green blooded bastard.

There was no way of keeping this from the Vulcan High Council. He had to see what, if anything, they knew. There was a high possibility that their little lapdog had gone running straight back to them. He could have melded with one of them and they could be declaring war on the Federation even as he sat there, pondering.

T'Pau of Vulcan was beaming down to Earth, into his building to be specific, to discuss the matter. The fact that it was now a ' _matter'_ was extremely worrying, but Komack was used to being around Betazoids and Vulcans alike; controlling his psi-waves and emotions was second nature to him in this game.

Like all her species, T'Pau was impressive. There was something about Vulcans - almost creepy. The way they carried themselves, the total lack of expression. All that hidden, unused power lurking beneath the veneer of logic and implacability. Something stronger and more intelligent than Komack…there was that rule again, making his stomach twist and fret. He hid it easily, well trained in such areas.

"If you wouldn't mind," she stated coldly, having sat down imperiously upon the chair opposite Komack. "I would like to hear the facts of this story, starting from the beginning."

Komack nodded and sat back in his chair, surveying his desk impassively.

"Of course. As you know, we received intelligence of a highly sensitive nature, concerning a Vulcan named Salkor. A renowned arms dealer and traitor to his own people, we contacted you at once to notify you of his intent to sell ion weaponry to someone here, on earth."

"You did not contact us," T'Pau corrected, smoothly. "We discovered this ourselves and contacted you."

Komack smiled tightly. "I did not make the call myself, of course. One of my staff was given the responsibility of making you aware of the situation. Anyway, as I was saying, you very kindly offered to send an agent of your own to assist us in attaining sufficient evidence of the weapons' whereabouts and proof enough to convict both Salkor and his human contacts. We graciously accepted your assistance and agreed to the terms that such circumstances would be handled with extreme care, minimizing exterior involvement. As was stipulated by yourself, Madam."

T'Pau didn't even blink. "Continue."

"Your agent, S'chn T'gai Spock, arrived yesterday. He surveyed Salkor's movements about the hotel, worked well enough with us and then," Komack paused for dramatic effect. "For reasons we do not understand, he seemed to…snap. He started screaming about shame, dishonour and weakness – we tried to stop him, but he was significantly stronger than anyone was prepared for. Using his phaser," Komack held it up in a clear bag. "He killed Salkor in his room, before the deal could be completed, or even instigated fully."

Silence filled the air; thick and heavyset.

"We assume this was his intent all along, to prevent the deal from taking place, thus maintaining the integrity of his beliefs and yours, not least of all the reputation of your species. He succeeded in stopping Salkor from disgracing the name of Vulcan."

He watched as one of T'Pau's eyebrows slowly rose in a questioning tilt.

"I see.  Please allow me to be clear about these facts, Admiral.  You are saying that an agent of the Vulcan High Council… _snapped_?"

The derision was blatant.  Komack realised that she was unlike other Vulcans he had encountered. She did not seem to care if she was emoting, being too expressive.  It made him a little more nervous.

"I realise the improbability of such a thing, but that does not alter the fact that it is true," Komack said, getting into the swing of his lie now, despite his misgivings.

"Improbable is a mild term," T'Pau told him.

"Yes, I can see that the concept of his guilt in this is difficult for you to accept, but we are a little pressed for time here, especially as you have expressed a wish to keep this matter contained. Can you give us some background on him, to help us find him?"

T'Pau shifted slightly, fixing her dark eyes on Komack. "Agent S'chn T'gai Spock was top in all his classes at the academy.  He received the highest levels of training in all areas.  He is our most decorated, valued agent and has achieved more than anyone in his entire generation; his talents are practically limitless and his discipline and strength remain unchallenged."

Komack sighed. "He is also a half breed, is he not?  Half human?  I think perhaps he is not quite as infallible as you suggest."

The air seemed to grow much, much colder. "We are aware of his mixed heritage, Admiral.  Regardless of this, Spock is one of the best agents this council has ever produced."

"Yes well, sometimes the best are also the worst. It's really very sad," Komack went on, more impatient than before. "Does he have any known contacts on earth?"

"He has no-one.  His Mother and Father were killed in the neutral zone three point seven years ago. They were his only family.  No mate, no offspring.  Nothing outside of his work.  Is there any surveillance to back up your claims?" she asked.

"Destroyed as he made his escape, of course.  Very thorough, your Agent."

"So the only evidence you have of Spock's guilt in all this, is your own eyewitness account?"

"Myself and four of my subordinates. Please feel free to question them to your own satisfaction. There are also witnesses from the hotel who saw him fleeing the scene, an indication of guilt in itself, no?"

"And you have not found him?"

Komack grimaced. "It's a big city, Madam. A very big city."

* * *

 

"So, I assume you will be staying a little longer than expected?" the old Vulcan asked.

Spock, who was sitting not quite upright in the chair, blinked. "A little longer," he allowed. Speech was not at the forefront of his mind; he would never normally give so vague an answer when he could easily have been more precise.  But there were other thoughts, crashing around inside.

His mind was moving very fast, processing all the facts.

Betrayed by Komack. Framed for Salkor's murder. Made to seem like a cover up. No witnesses to verify his claims. No evidence. Two prostitutes, one dead, one missing; probably dead. No witnesses, no hope of getting off this planet before Komack and all of Starfleet would catch him. No due process. No trial. Komack would have him killed and say it was self-defence.

"Earth is a nice place, once you get used to it," the elderly Vulcan was saying as he prepared plomeek soup. "And humans are a nice species, once you get used to them. Are you hungry?"

"No."

But he put a bowl of the soup down in front of Spock anyway, spoon right beside it. "Family recipe," he told him, shuffling gracefully away. "Very tasty."

It smelled very good and Spock hadn't realised just how hungry he was. It reminded him of when his mother would make this soup for him, when he caught a fever.

After a few more seconds spent deliberating the matter, he finally gave in and pulled the bowl towards him.

* * *

 

"Fifty men on the street and you can't find this son a bitch!" Komack roared, slamming his fist down on the PADD, displaying the Vulcan's unruffled face. It cracked and flickered, mocking him. "He didn't check into his hotel, he's not in any of the hospitals…"

"Was he, uh…even injured?" one of Komack's underlings asked in a quiet voice.

Komack glared at him before snarling, "He jumped out of a six storey window. Let's rule out the possibility that he's Clark fucking Kent for a two seconds and try to be realistic!"

"But he's a Vulcan," the death-wish lackey went on.

"They bleed," Komack growled. "Salkor bled and this mother fucking is going to bleed just the same. Once we find him, anyway.  Who checked downtown?"

"I did," another guy, older and distinctly nervous, replied. "But it's hard to blend in, there's not a lot of humans in that area."

"So shave your eyebrows and wear pointy ears for all I care!  Now get out, OUT!  I want that prick in my office by tonight!"

They hurried out, all except Grant who stayed behind to oversee Komack's next port of call.

Jim Kirk.

* * *

 

Jim Kirk was struggling to imagine what could possibly be left in his stomach.  The last time he'd eaten food was at least three days ago (if you could call leftover bar snacks food) and what his poor body hadn't absorbed immediately, as if it knew what might happen, had been puked out last night.  He _still_ felt sick, despite being empty enough that he could have rattled if shook.  And yet…worse than the hunger, worse than the fatigue…was _this_.

Waiting to see Komack.

He was very familiar with this building, off location from the San Fran Starbase and situated a little more to the North.  That's what you got for being Admiral, Jim guessed.  Your own _building_.  He knew the building, knew the rooms, knew the hallway and even more intimately…he knew the office he would soon be called in to.

The first time he'd set eyes on this cursed building, he had been a seventeen year old screw up in a whole lot of trouble.  He'd gone to see Komack because he'd heard from his friend Leonard, who was enrolled in the academy two years above him, that Komack was the man to see about applying to Starfleet, especially if you had a less than shiny background.

Only things hadn't quite gone in that direction, had they now?

He shook himself and tried to focus.  It was hard when he was so afraid.  He vaguely remembered a time when he had been afraid of nothing.  That life seemed like a distant memory now; a faded dream, twisted and distorted by time and fear.

Komack's door opened and his underlings left in swift procession.  Jim stood, tried to steel himself, and went inside.

"Ahh, yes," Komack sighed, sweeping his hair back and visibly calming himself down. "Jimmy, come in. Come in, darling boy."

That skin crawling voice, that dangerous smile.  Even running on empty, Jim's stomach swerved again.

"Richard," he said, because he knew Komack preferred the intimacy of first names. "I tried.  I really tried, I was only in the bathroom for a minute.  I was g-getting ready to do it, I was.  I was getting ready to do the thing you asked me to do.  The thing you wanted me to do…I was…I really…"

He was stammering, badly.  His own voice turning traitor against him.  He sat down on the chair as he continued to babble, Komack's hand ran through his dirty hair.  "Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy…I know you were," he whispered, soothingly.  His fingertips traced Jim's jaw – a deceptively gentle gesture.  "Coming from such a quiet place as Iowa, you must have been so scared."

Jim swallowed. "I tried, I really did."

"I know, all that noise," Komack mused, his eyes focused heavily on Jim's. "My poor little farmer's son." He pulled Jim into his arms and Jim couldn't help but flinch a little. "Don't be scared, darling," he breathed, pulling Jim in closer. "You're the best boy I have. And you know how I treat my best boy."

Jim shuddered, trying not to think too much about it. "I-I know."  Komack's hand stroked Jim's back, making soothing little circles. "So," Jim tried after a beat of silence. "So you'll keep your promise?"

The Admiral withdrew, frowning as if confused. "Promise?  Did I make a promise?" His hand rested on Jim's face, hot and oppressive.

"Y-y-yes, you said that if I did it one more time you would…you would let me have my daughter back."

Pain slammed into Jim's subconscious at the thought of his daughter. His beautiful, bright, fucking _amazing_ daughter Lily. Only five years old, had his stunning blue eyes…the most adorable, gorgeous little girl in the universe and he couldn't see her…wasn't allowed to be with her, hold her. Komack had her hidden away, Jim knew that now.  At first he'd believed Komack's lies about social services and welfare agents, but now he knew better.  He had promised to get her back when Jim was ready, when he had proven himself.  It would take time, Komack had said.  Time and money.

"Did I say that?" Komack asked, face too close to Jim's.

Jim swallowed. "Yes, you did."

Komack's eyes flickered away briefly to somewhere behind Jim. "Did I say that, Grant?"

Jim spun around and saw that Grant was sitting at Komack's desk, looking grimly smug. That couldn't be good. "Oh yes, you did," he replied.

"Well there you have it," Komack sighed. "I guess I'll have to let you go. You and your precious daughter."

Jim's heart skipped a beat in a moment of stupid hope. He almost went to stand, but Komack put a hand to his shoulder, darkness flashing in his eyes.

"Do you realise how much I must trust you to let you go?" he asked, low and flat. "With everything you know, everything you've seen.  One word from you, Jim Kirk, and I'd be locked up for the rest of my life!"

"NO!" Jim gasped. "I'd never...I wouldn't do that!"

"I know that," Komack said, but the darkness didn't pass. "Do you think I'd let you go if I didn't trust you?"

Jim's ears heard the hiss of a hypo being prepared.  Fresh dread formed in his heart. "What is he doing?" he gasped.

The corner of Komack's mouth curled up. "I don't know, what are you doing, Grant?"

Calmly, Grant replied, "I'm prepping a fix."

"He's prepping a fix, do you want a little taste, huh Jimmy?"

"Richard," Jim begged, struggling to draw breath. "I told you I quit." He thought of his daughter, his fucked up hell of a life and something inside of him screamed and smashed against the walls of his heart.  "I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE! I QUIT!"

And just like that, the facade of tenderness was gone. "YOU DON'T TELL ME WHEN YOU'RE GONNA QUIT!  I TELL _YOU_!  HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE FOR A FUCKING PIECE OF DELINQUENT TRASH LIKE YOU TO BETRAY ME?"

Grant and Komack had Jim by the arms now, pinning him down to the chair so he couldn't move an inch. "I won't betray you," Jim sobbed. "Please don't!"

" _I won't betray you!  Please don't!"_ Komack echoed shrilly, as Grant shoved the hypo right into Jim's neck. There was a small, familiar pinch and then the drugs hit his bloodstream.

The world, so wretched and painful, slowed down immediately. The chemicals Jim had come to despise were in his system within seconds and that sensation, that feeling that somehow everything was numb and painless, overtook his anger and desperation. He went lax in the chair, eyes rolling back, but not before he heard Komack say, "Put him back to work."

* * *

 

Hell was apparently a cold, grey street where you stood for hours, sometimes days on end until someone offered you credits for sex.

"Get the fuck out, c'mon!  Move your fuckin' ass!" Jim was thrown out of the car before he could even attempt to get himself out.  He tried to stand up and walk, but the fucking drugs in his system were making that beyond difficult.  Grant hauled him up by the collar and threw him into a wall, as if he were a sack of garbage.

"Get to work you fuckin' animals, you cocksucking pigs!" he yelled down the narrow alleyway before driving away and leaving Jim and the others to it.

So out of it he could barely see, Jim made his way towards a dark little area, a porch of one of the shops. God, if he could just lean up against that wall...that's all he needed. He tripped into the darkness, letting most of his weight fall against the brickwork. His bones were too thin, everything worn down to a fucking nub. He felt like he was about to shatter apart. The 'good effects' of the drugs were almost completely gone now, all that remained was a vague, disturbing numbness. That would be gone in roughly ten minutes and then the full reality of his life would be all around him once more, smothering him, killing him.

He allowed his eyes to fall closed for just a second, head against the wall when all of a sudden, he was being thrown back onto the street. His legs were not ready for such sudden movement, and he fell. He grazed his knees and hands badly; the pain wasn't quite there yet, but it would be soon. His blood mingled with grit and rain.

"Bitch!" came the voice of guy who had just tossed him onto the sidewalk. "I'm gone for five minutes and you think you can park your skinny ass in my spot?  Fuck off!"

Slowly, Jim drew himself to full height and turned to face the guy. An ugly, red headed man at least ten years older than everyone else on this street. They called him Old School and he was a mean, nasty son a bitch. Usually, Jim stayed away from this area entirely, as did anyone with sense, but he'd forgotten. And suddenly he really didn't give a flying fuck.

He was James Tiberius Kirk and he wasn't going to whimper and beg forgiveness from some old jerk off.

He faced the man, swaying like he was drunk.

"You want some more?" the guy asked, incredulously.

Jim stumble closer and then – SMACK!  Head-butted the guy right in the centre of his ugly fucking face.

"AAACK!" the man spluttered, hands flying to where blood was pouring. "He...he broke my nose!"

"Whoops!" Jim giggled and for a few glorious moments, he felt almost like a human being who could stand tall.

Then there was a hand in his hair, yanking him backwards and a voice he knew very well.  It was a voice that meant bruises, split lips, cracked ribs, broken bones, sprains and headaches.

"What you doin'? Eh?" Lupo – the blonde, spiteful prick currently yanking Jim backwards by his hair, was in charge of overseeing matters of transactions on this street. He too had a knack for non-verbal communication. He dragged Jim to the very end corner of the street, practically deserted.

_It was worth it_ , Jim made himself think over and over. _Worth it._

* * *

 

"You play chess?"

Spock shrugged, halfway through the plomeek soup. The simple action hurt. He had torn a ligament in his back when he'd jumped out of the hotel window.  Not important, at present; a simple irritation.  "A little."

"I love chess.  Keeps the mind sharp.  But it's hard to find good players around here," the old Vulcan was saying. "My father gave me a beautiful hand crafted set when I was younger, but I so rarely use it now."

He continued to speak, but Spock's attention was drawn elsewhere.  Outside the shop, a man was dragging something, screaming at it.  A young human boy.

The man punched the boy hard in the face and he fell to the ground. "Piece of shit," he was scathing. Spock watched in silence, unable to tear his eyes away. "You," the man said, looking down at the boy. "Are a fuckin' dog.  Alright?" He then kicked him in the ribs for good measure, finally drawing a cry from the boy.  "Now get to work."

Spock didn't realise how hard he was gripping the spoon until it bent in his palm.  He had encountered human violence like this before, but usually towards a willing, equally dangerous opponent.  Though he was aware of the human capacity for needless cruelty, he could never quite prepare himself for it.  No amount of training or meditation could remove his disgust for such practices.

A hand came up against the wet glass, feeling for support.  The boy pulled himself up, shaking his hair to remove excess moisture.  He looked as though he was having trouble breathing.  A cracked rib, Spock suspected.  Once he was fully upright, he leant against the window as though he would fall if it wasn't there.

The old Vulcan had been talking the whole time about his niece who he never saw, who wanted to come to earth and enlist in Starfleet; only now had he noticed the boy outside.

"Go away!" he shouted, rushing towards the door, intending to shoo the boy away. "Go away!"

Spock put out a hand to halt him. "Please," he said. "Don't."

"You don't know these kids," the Vulcan said, throwing a dirty look in the general direction of the street.  "They say they want to use the bathroom, and then they're injecting themselves with Surak only knows what!"

"They only hurt themselves, please don't draw attention."

Spock listened as the old one muttered under his breath in Vulcan about lack of morals, drugs and hypos outside his door in the morning.  He left the shop, continuing his private little rant as he went to purchase supplies.

When he was gone, the young boy turned and looked at the glass, seeing only his reflection at first.  He looked at the newly forming bruise, wincing as he poked it gingerly.  He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, running a hand through his wet, dirty hair.

Trying to make himself appealing, Spock realised with a strange, painful jolt. 

There was something...odd about the boy though.  Spock could not successfully identify exactly what it was, but there was most definitely something strange about him.  Almost...familiar.

And then the boy saw through the glass, straight to Spock.

Those eyes...he had never seen that colour blue, even from all the way over there...his eyes were just so strikingly blue.  There was something else though, something more than the shocking colour...the boy didn't just see him.  He seemed to be able to see all the way down into him.  No being had ever looked at Spock like that.

When he smiled a little, Spock dropped his gaze to the soup, trying to eat it with the spoon he had now mangled.  He saw the boy's eyes flashing before him, even as he focused on the orange coloured soup.

"Excuse me?"

Spock looked up, mid motion.  The boy was peering around the doorway, smiling in what would have been a very disarming way if he'd had the energy to make it genuine. 

"Can I use your toilet?"

"No."

The boy smiled again, clenching his knees together a little. "Please, I only have to pee.  I won't be long."

" _No_."

They held eye contact for a few moment until the boy nodded.  "Uh-huh. OK."

And them to Spock's sheer disbelief, the boy unzipped his jeans and hooked his thumb around the waistband, about to pull them down entirely.

Spock started forward so quickly that he sent the entire and all its contents table flying.  "Stop!" he called, scrabbling in a most un-Vulcan way to reach the boy before the jeans went south.  "What are you doing?"

"Well," the boy said, unmistakably stubborn. "If you're gonna treat me like a dog, I'm gonna act like a dog and I'll pee right here."

Spock was grudgingly impressed at the display of spirit, determination and... daring.

"Very well," he conceded, unable to allow the boy to relieve himself on the doorstep. "Back there."

Those eyes latched into his, dark half-moons swimming beneath them. They seemed bright for a moment, gratitude lighting them up.  That only made them more intensely blue than before.

"Thank you," he sighed. "Thank you so much."

He managed to walk, almost without stumbling, inside the shop.  Spock could not help but notice the hundreds of scents that clung to him, mostly all unpleasant. Mostly blood and tears.  The boy was filthy, bruised and injured.  A mark on his neck revealed he had been given something, drugs no doubt, which affected his speech and ability to move.  Yet even despite all this, he was an attractive young man. Beautiful even.  He could be no older than twenty two.

He followed Spock to the bathroom, very closely behind. "But," Spock said, turning mid-step. "Nothing else."

The boy shook his head. "No, nothing else. You wanna search me?" He spread his arms wide in a gesture of supplication and the Vulcan turned away, averting his eyes from those pools of electric blue.

"No, but I would appreciate expediency."

He opened the door for him, as the boy squeezed past. "I'm sorry to have to force you like this, it's just I have got to go _so bad_ ," already starting to re-unzip his jeans once more, before he was even inside the bathroom.  Spock sighed through clenched teeth and shut the door, shoving him inside in the process. "I'm only gonna be a minute."

A minute passed. And another.

"Sir," Spock called through the door. "Sir, you have to finish now.  Your allocated minute has expired."

"Sir, please."  It sounded almost desperate, but Spock was in no fit state to receive male prostitutes in need of a toilet.

He opened the door a crack, to see that the boy had passed out on the floor. He sighed, deliberating for a moment.  He could let him...but no, that was a bad idea.  The boy _couldn't_ stay there.  He had to leave. This wasn't his shop and he was in enough trouble as it was. 

"Sir," he tried, louder this time. "SIR!"

It seemed ridiculous, calling the young whore, ' _Sir'_.  Finally, he gave up and delivered a controlled slap to the boy's cheek.  He sprang awake immediately, blue eyes flooding Spock's senses.

"Was I out long?" he asked, breathless and somewhat dazed.

"Only a minute."

He nodded, clarity flooding his eyes and senses too soon. "That's good.  Back to work then." He stood with effort, wincing and clutching his ribcage as he drew himself to full height and exited the small bathroom.  "Christ, I'm just so tired...he gave me another fucking shot and I...oh my God," the boy's exhausted rambling halted as  he spotted the bowl of soup on the floor, only a little residue left. "Are you gonna finish this?" He dropped down, picked up the bowl from the floor and put it to his mouth, gulping it down eagerly.

"This is pretty good," he said, seeming a lot more cheerful all of a sudden. "Did you make this yourself?" He swiped his fingers around the bowl, cleaning them off in his mouth.

"Yes," Spock answered, trying not to focus on the unknowingly obscene gesture.

"Is that what you do, then?  You cook, huh?" he asked, sucking his index finger which had been covered in the soup.

"No."

"But you make those, what are they called?  Like chips, only not – some kind of Vulcan potato thingy. You make those, right?"

Spock blinked, answering on autopilot.  "My uncle does."

"Oh, I love those chips," the boy said, reaching for one, where they had scattered on the floor. "Do you mind?  I love the pink ones.  My daughter loves the blue ones.  That's her favourite colour, blue..."

Blue, like his eyes.

"Sir, I must ask that please leave now."

The boy nodded, stuffing another few of the 'Vulcan Chips' into his mouth. "Delicious.  I'm sorry, it's not every day I get to eat Vulcan food. Or, y'know… _food._ "

At a loss for what to do, Spock went to the counter and grabbed two bags of the _Ceulari's_ – one pink, one blue – and handed them to the boy, hoping it would encourage him to leave, though not sure as to why.

"Here, one for yourself and one for your daughter."

The boy's face lit up.  "Oh my God, this is so nice!" Still, the boy made no move to leave so Spock had no choice but to bodily lift him from the floor and then usher him to the exit.  He seemed not to notice, staring at the _Ceulari's_ as if he'd never seen anything like them.  "You're the first person that's been kind to me since I got here."  The smile faded for a moment and he studied the chips. "Look I...I...don't like to take things from people, usually I like to pay my own way so...I don't know, maybe later on if you want to," and he shrugged his shoulders in what could not be mistaken for anything other than an inviting gesture. "Y'know.  No charge?"

Spock understood immediately. "No.  Thank you."

He seemed a little sad.  "I don't have any other way to repay you."

"Do not concern yourself."

The boy's smile returned.  "I'm not your type, is that it?"

"I do not have a type."

The boy was about to leave when he turned back again.  Spock was close to running back to the kitchen for more _Ceulari's_ but the boy just tilted his head curiously. "What's your name?"

Instead of a plausible lie though, what came out of his mouth was the truth and completely without his permission.

"Spock."

"Wow, cool name."

"And...your name?" Spock heard himself asking.

"James Kirk," the boy said, stronger than anything else he'd said thus far.

"James Kirk," Spock said, _quieter_ than anything he had said thus far. "I am sorry for hitting you."

James smiled and shrugged. "That's OK. I'm used to it."

He turned away then and went back to leaning against the glass, but Spock noticed he was hiding the chips behind his back so no-one could see them or take them from him.

Spock did most certainly not feel something resembling pity.  Nor confusion.  He most definitely was _not_ thinking about those cerulean blue eyes for the next forty six minutes.

Most importantly, he did _not_ pick up the bowl that he previous contained plomeek soup, and trace his fingertips over the place where James Kirk's mouth had been.

* * *

 

S'chn T'gai Spock had been a conundrum ever since T'Pau had known him.  Almost immediately it became clear he was not like other children of his age.  He instinctively withdrew from the usual forays towards social intercourse; he sat alone, ate alone, _wanted_ to be alone, so it seemed.  He was an unusually quiet child, to an unsettling degree.  He did not start to speak until he was three and a half, quite late for a Vulcan child.  It was obvious to the healers who examined him that he had the capacity to speak, he simply did not want to.  One such theory, though T'Pau was hesitant to consider it as anything but conjecture, was that Spock had an _'imaginary friend'_ so to speak.  He did not require social interaction, because he was – in his mind, at least – already interacting.  He did not wish to speak, because he was already doing so.  However, the theory was not entirely credible and it had been dismissed easily.

When Spock was five years old, he fell into a quarry. He had been wandering too far from his home, without the express permission or knowledge of either parents and he'd come across a chasm; massive and deep.  He'd crawled closer on his hands and knees to better see into its depths, but he had miscalculated badly and the edge gave way to his weight and the gravity beneath. He fell eighty feet before he landed on a jutting rock extending from the wall of the chasm, concussing himself and shattering his collarbone.  He'd lain unconscious for six hours before he awoke with a sudden jolt, almost falling off the narrow extension in the process.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt in his entire five years of existence.  It was white hot agony, rolling through his body in shockwaves, residing in his bones and nerves. It had taken his breath away, threatened to make him sick...but he never cried.  Never screamed.  Never sobbed or whimpered.

By the time his mother and father had found him, using their parental bond, he was deathly white and freezing cold. They pulled him up and to safety, his mother flinging her arms around her son, sobbing quietly. The fresh pain of that had threatened to make him pass out, but he never made a sound. Only later did his father discover the broken bone. He did not speak for a few days, until the pain was entirely gone. He did not trust himself to speak until then, terrified that if he did, somehow he would lose control over himself. He had never told anyone this, of course. T'Pau had melded with him to find out the truth of the matter.

That occasion marked the first time T'Pau had considered him for the training.  She could recall with crisp and perfect clarity, seeing into Spock's mind...reliving the memory.  The fall, the shock, the pain. But he had controlled it... _at five years old_.  Even for a Vulcan, such a feat was impressive.

It also made him vulnerable.  He possessed an innate stubbornness which prevented him from requesting assistance in any matter.  He would not say when he was injured, when bones were broken or fractured.  He would not admit when he could not complete a task – instead he would remain behind after all others had left, for days sometimes, until he had accomplished it to his own satisfaction. A truly logical being knew when to ask for help; knew their own limits of achievement.

At the age of twelve, there had been an incident with a fellow student. It was not uncommon for infant Vulcans to lose emotional control during those years.  Hormonal variations made it difficult for them to retain a constant sense of tranquillity and calm.  The constant stimulation for their thirsty minds caused an adrenaline rush and occasionally, incidents occurred.

With Spock, it had not been an incident pertaining to some intellectual disagreement. The child, whom he'd beaten severely, had insulted his family, most specifically his mother.  T'Pau had watched as four fully grown Vulcans pried Spock's hands off the other boy.  She later watched as shame and self-loathing for his own weakness smothered him completely.  She watched him despair...and then despair even more so, _because he was despairing._

She realised then, that his conception of what it meant to be a Vulcan, was wrong.  His belief system was built upon preconceived notion which was, in essence, incorrect.  Spock thought that to be Vulcan, he must feel nothing.  He assumed, therefore, that because he did feel...it meant he was a flawed being. Imperfect, deficient.

At the age of sixteen, he suffered with an unprecedented anomaly; something no healer of Vulcan had ever encountered before and could not accurately diagnose, even to this day with the advantage of retrospect.  He was too young to be experiencing Pon Farr; it was not a broken bond for he was not yet bonded to T'Pring.  It was something else.

His mind went into a state of chaos.  He was overtaken by madness, anguish, devastating emotions that threatened those around him, not least of all himself.  No-one knew what had caused it; no-one had any idea of how to cure it, except to keep him sedated.  He would scream and thrash, begging to be let loose, to be allowed to run, to not be touched.  Most of what he said, curiously enough, was in Standard.  Sometimes, he would cry out for someone.  A human name with which he had no tangible connection.  When tied down he would cry until the sedatives took hold of him.  His parents were beside themselves with worry; his mother in particular blamed herself and her side of his genetic makeup.  The situation began to look hopeless when it simply...stopped.

After almost a week of violent insanity, he awoke from the sedatives, disorientated and confused.  He had little idea what had happened to him or why.  He claimed not to remember and a glimpse into his mind revealed that he was speaking the truth, mostly.  T'Pau had seen things in his mind then, things he could not see himself, that remained with her to this day.

Things that had no place in the mind of a sixteen year old Vulcan.

She never revealed this to anyone, not even his parents. Some things were not meant to be made public and that had most certainly been one of them.

Following that occasion, T'Pau watched as he crafted himself into one of most disciplined, controlled Vulcans she had ever encountered.  It was as though he was building a wall around himself, shutting down any such emotion that might taint his logic and composure.  Whatever had happened to him during those six days, he spent the next few years of his life making certain it could not happen again.

The old habits remained, though.  He would not ask for help, would not reveal when in pain or injured.  Too stubborn to see his own stubbornness.

A trait she could tell, as he sat before her, had not abated with time or necessity.

The cafe was crowded and arguably filthy; a relatively safe place to remain inconspicuous.  They sat at a table far from the dirty glass windows, speaking in their mother tongue, low and swift.

"You cannot be serious," T'Pau stated, glaring at him across the table.

"Why would I not be?" he asked, somewhat coldly.

"I offer you safe passage to Vulcan where you will be kept safe, hidden from Komack's grasp...and you _refuse_?  It is beyond stubbornness, Spock.  You are breeching the borders of madness."

He took that as well as expected, his lips thinning at the insult.

"I will not flee to Vulcan and spend my life hiding away from the authorities," he stated very clearly, dark eyes unflinching and empty.

"You prefer to die with honour than to live in shame, is that it?" she demanded. "The threat you represent to Komack is such that he is prepared to kill you on sight and claim self-defence.  He will turn this city upside down in search of you.  You say there are no surveillance recordings, no witnesses left alive; how do you plan on clearing your name?"

He stiffened visibly. "There must be something he has overlooked, something I can locate and use to prove my innocence.  I shall find it."

"You shall fail and die in the process.  My sway here is limited at best.  We are forced to offer cooperation in the spirit of allegiance with the Federation.  You will die and I can do nothing to prevent it, save to offer you a way back to Vulcan." She hesitated, watching him carefully. "Put aside your foolish pride for but a moment and realise the situation you are in.  You need help, why can you not accept it?"

"I came to meet you, did I not?"

"And I offer help, which you refuse.  Why?  You will never find a way to clear your name now.  You had better return home and live your life in the community."

He openly scowled for a moment. "You would have me bond?  Reproduce?"

"You prefer to remain in this charming city?  A career in retail, perhaps?"

"Sarcasm is not befitting one of your statue, My Lady," he said, quieter, head bowed a little.  T'Pau tried not to exhale her frustration.

"I know the reasons behind your hesitation towards bonding, but you were young before...it would not be that way again, not if you controlled yourself."

Something dark flashed through his eyes. "I will not bond with T'Pring.  It is an offence to my very nature."

"That is not why you refuse to return to Vulcan," she said, glaring even more so. "If you stay here, you will die.  The Admiral will see to it." He said nothing, he didn't need to. ' _Then I die,_ ' hung in the air between them as loud as any words.  T'Pau refrained from rolling her eyes. "Spock, I have watched you your entire life.  I believe I have contributed to what you are in some small way, so listen when I say this.  You know as well as I do, that there are worse things than failure.  You can be hurt, killed or...worse.  Do you not recall the incident during your sixteenth year?"

He stood bolt upright so fast the chair fell over.  People in the cafe turned and openly stared, obviously hoping to see some sort of violence or disturbance.

"I will not contact you until I have attained proof of my innocence.  Peace and long life, T'Pau," he said, turning blindly away and leaving without another word.

T'Pau watched him leave with an inevitable sense of regret. He was as much as child with a broken collarbone as he had ever been.

* * *

 

It began to rain on the way back to the shop, but Spock barely noticed. He did not seek out public transport of any kind, instead he walked through the falling droplets of water, his mind churning treacherously as he blindly moved one foot in front of the other, on basic autopilot.

' _Do you not recall the incident during your sixteenth year?'_

Flashes, pieces of light and sound came to him splintered shards. There was no whole memory of what had occurred, but there did not need to be. Spock _knew_ what he had seen, what he had felt and the fact that it had not happened to him made no difference.

He became so wrapped up in the fractured memory that he did not hear footsteps behind him; could not hear the swing of the metal bar before it collided with his spine.

* * *

 

**  
**


	3. Star Cross'd

**-Chapter Three: Star Cross'd-**

The rain had begun to ease up about an hour ago and with it went Jim's last shred of hope.  The rain might have been gloomy, cold and grey.  It might have soaked his shoes, chilled him to the bone and made his hair – if possible – even dirtier than before but it served a purpose.  However, it tended to keep clients away.  Aside from the authorities, nothing kept them away quite like a rainstorm.

So, as it tapered off into nothingness, Jim couldn't help but scowl at his bad luck.  Not like his chances of being chosen were very good anyway considering his state of appearance and current area of residence, but knowing his luck he'd pull some fat old guy who was into dirty boys who smelled like plomeek soup.

His back ached badly, worse than usual. Mostly it was the standing up that did him in; sometimes his bones would creak and groan in protest, but they had adjusted mostly.  This was a something else. His spine felt like it was splitting itself in half, not to mention the headache that was starting to scream behind his eyes, making itself at home in his sockets.

Lovely.  Just lovely.

A few minutes passed while Jim tried to numb himself to the pain in his back which was, thankfully, diminishing, he began to wonder why he hadn't seen Gary yet.  Komack had told him he was injured, when Jim had managed to ask where he was, and that he wouldn't be around for a while but Jim knew Gary pretty well; no hospital or sick bay was going to keep Gary cooped up for very long.  Not unless they were going to keep him well and truly dosed.

It was probably better this way, really.  Gary did nothing but generate vast amounts of trouble and then drag others into it with him.  Jim could still remember the first time he'd ever met Gary Mitchell; remembered the taste of the drink in his mouth when he'd kissed him, the smell of his skin and the way Gary smiled. _That_ _smile_ he always smiled, regardless of who he was with.

Jim hadn't known then that Gary was one of Komack's boys.  He hadn't been aware that Komack had sent him after Jim, to convince him to give the job a try after he'd left the interview that day.

' _It's so much fun,_ ' Gary had promised, all smiles and dizzying, breathless kisses. _'How much would you get working in a store, per hour, Jimmy?  Fifty credits, sixty?  You know how much you get per hour, for having this much fun?'_

More than Jim had been able to flat out refuse, but he'd been hesitant.  Even kissing Gary, who was quite beautiful himself, felt inexplicably strange.

But then, that was nothing new.  Kissing anyone who wasn’t…well, it was complicated. 

Gary had seen the hesitation in his eyes and had known just what to do, though. 

' _Baby,_ ' he'd crooned, running his hands all through Jim's hair.   _'I'd be with you the whole time.  You and me together, totally safe – totally fun.  C'mon baby.  Let Daddy run the show, huh?'_

After a few months, however, it had changed.  Gary was there less and less, until finally Jim stopped expected to see him every day.  Gary came when he wanted to, usually when he was coming down. There was no-one he liked to crash all over better than Jim.  No-one he liked to play with more.  When it came to some dangerous, stupid stunt, Jim was always his first choice.

The headache grew until the cartilage in his nose throbbed and ached in time with his heartbeat.

"Ugh," he groaned, trying to shake it away. It succeeded only in making things greatly worse as the blood flow increased.

Life had not gone the way Jim had expected it to.

But then, when did it ever?

Looking back over his entire twenty one years of life, James Kirk was starting to see a pattern evolving. Something that should have been wonderful, turning into something awful.

For instance, his birthday.  The day he was born, a day of celebration, right?  Nope.  A day to lament the father he never had and the husband he resembled to such an extent, his mother can't look at him. Every birthday since was tainted with death and loss.

Bitterly, Jim thinks of another; his first kiss.

First kisses should be all endearing clumsiness and sweetness.  Closed mouth, chaste innocence and giggling, right?  Nope.  Nothing innocent or chaste about his Xenolinguistics Tutor, sitting Jim on his lap when he was twelve and asking him if he'd ever been kissed.  Jim hadn't answered, but had blushed spectacularly and that had been enough for Mr Delaware.  Jim had cried for three hours before falling asleep, locked away in the attic where he couldn't be found.  His mom had been furious, telling him he couldn't keep pulling pranks like this; he was getting a new father soon and that would straighten him out good and proper. 

Frank. Frank had been the _loveliest_ surprise of all.

A father figure, a replacement for the years of loneliness and confusion; no-one to play ball with or talk to about life and other things his mom couldn't listen to. Right?

Wrong.  Very, very wrong.

His bitter introspection might have continued uninterrupted into much darker depths, but a light jingling sound yanked him from his thoughts and back to the gloomy, wet reality.

The old Vulcan was leaving the shop, muttering under his breath in what Jim knew was colloquial Vulcan. He'd spent the entire summer locked away in his room, studying xenolinguistics so that he wouldn't have to be tutored anymore. He knew his languages well enough to know that what was being said wasn't exactly flattering him or those in his general vocation.

"Hi," he said politely, managing a small smile.

The elderly Vulcan grumbled some more and shuffled gracefully down the street.

Jim sighed.  Trying to regain the equilibrium to shut himself down, like he normally did, was especially difficult today.  He wished he didn't know why, he wished he was completely clueless as to what exactly it was that was keeping him firmly planted in this reality.

He wished it wasn't in the shop behind him.

The funny thing was, Jim had been hit more times than he could count in his short life.  But no-one had ever apologised.  Never.  The way Spock had said it, like he was genuinely sorry, Jim couldn't stop replaying it over and over again in his mind.

' _Jesus,'_ he thought to himself.  ' _Be a little more pathetic.  So the guy apologised – big deal!  He's a Vulcan.  That's what they do.'_

He found the sudden desire to turn around and sneak a peek at the beautiful Vulcan was almost unstoppable.  Almost...very nearly almost...

Before he could even stop himself, Jim turned and stared through the dirty window, trying to see the younger Vulcan.  Just one glimpse would satisfy his curiosity; one little look and then he could regain his focus.

Finally his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw him.

He was sitting at the table.

And he was _shirtless_.

"Oh holy fucking _fuck_ ," Jim breathed against the glass, fogging it a little so the image of the shirtless Vulcan blurred for a moment.  Well, this wasn't good.  Not good at all.  Bad enough that he had been beautiful, dark and mesmeric earlier, when he'd been fully clothed but now... _now..._ he was breath-taking. Literally. "OK, Jim. Get a grip, man.  You are not a thirteen year old girl."

The second thing he noticed, when he was able to focus on anything besides the shock of seeing the gorgeous creature shirtless, was that he was hurt.  Spock was trying, and consequently failing, to reach a long, deep wound in his back with a dermal regenerator.  His torso and arms bore dark green bruises and he had split his bottom lip at some point because it was plumper than before and bottle green.

Before Jim could stop himself _again_ , he opened the door and cleared his throat.

"Need any help?"

The Vulcan glanced up, almost irritably, but not with any real surprise. "No."

"I have some experience," Jim went on, semi-casually.  An achievement in itself.

" _No_." The exclamation mark was so close to existing.

"Y'know, the longer you leave that thing unhealed the greater chance of infection setting in and then you are in for it!" Jim advised excitedly.  "I had a scrape on my elbow I ignored once, I let it go for a few days, turned into staph infection..."

"Very well," Spock ground out, placing the regenerator down on the table with more force than necessary.  It seemed to seriously cost him something, accepting Jim's help.  "But only to heal the wound.  Then I must ask you to leave."  That was clearly supposed to be intimidating, but Jim was far too thrilled at being allowed to help him to care or to give it the proper respect it deserved.  Jim suspected lesser men had cowed at that tone of voice, but he took an odd delight in hearing it.

"Yeah, yeah," Jim agreed easily.  Exactly why he was thrilled, he couldn't determine.  Not logically, anyway.  He went and sat behind Spock, seeing the wound up close.  It was deep, almost deep enough that he could see bone.  Just to the right of the spine and obviously extremely painful.  Jim's own back gave a twinge in sympathy.  He fiddled with the device for a moment, unable to stop staring at the vast expanse of beautiful, if marred, green skin.  "Alright, now this is gonna sting."

Spock didn't as much as flinch when the regenerator hit the wounded, torn flesh.  A non-reaction so complete, that Jim checked to see if it was even working.

"He doesn't like me loitering outside, does he?" he asked after a moment of silence, in which he was painfully aware that his gaze was moving up Spock's back, to the curve of his neck.

When Spock didn't reply, Jim shrugged, reading the silence. "That's OK.  I wouldn't want me standing outside either." The neckline was smooth and perfect, Jim wanted to touch his skin to see how hot it was.  He could feel the heat coming from it, without even having brushed so much as a finger against it. "It's just," he went on, trying to keep himself distracted.  "All the good spots get taken and, I mean you would not believe how much business some of us do in a day.  Guess how much?"

"I do not know," he replied, stiffly.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Guess."

"I cannot."

"Jeez, just pick a number."

Seeming a little put out, the Vulcan answered shortly, "Five."

Jim chuckled. "Five? How about twenty five?"

Spock turned his head towards Jim ever so slightly. "Twenty five?"

"Well, that's the record, but at least fifteen.  Me?  I'm lucky if I can do five in a week."

Yes. _Lucky_.

Another odd moment when his eyes were drawn helplessly back to Spock's outline. Now he was starting to seriously stare at those curved ears, the points were flushed a little greener than the rest of his body, except for the wound...oh shit!  Jim quickly readjusted the dermal regenerator.  He had been healing skin that did not require healing.

"You ever been with a hooker?" he asked, because _god damn it_ he needed to keep speaking.

"No."

Jim blinked. "Not even once?"

"No."

"Are you gay?"

The Vulcan flinched for the first time, his back jerking once and his head turning very quickly. " _No_."

Again, the exclamation mark was almost audible.  Jim swallowed down a smile.  He'd witnessed that reaction too many times to be anything other than amused.

"I mean, it'd be OK if you were.  I think everyone should be who they wanna be and do it with who they wanna do it with."

Spock's back muscles turned to reinforced steel. "I am not gay."

"I'm just sayin'," Jim went on cheerfully. "I don't hold nothin' against nobody that way."

"Are you finished?" Spock asked, almost hysterically.

"Yup.  Good as new," Jim added with a flourish, proudly surveying the raw, sore looking skin.  But at least it was whole once more.  Strangely, his own back ache seemed to have gone now.  The miracle of being allowed to sit on a chair for five minutes.  As his eyes continued to shamelessly roam over the Vulcan's upper body, his eyes caught sight of a massive green scar, curving above his left shoulder blade.  "Oh my God, that scar.  Let me see..."

Spock jumped up as if burned and pulled the shirt on so quickly, Jim barely even saw it.  "Thank you," he said, almost breathlessly.  "Thank you very much.  You have performed admirably."

Jim shrugged.  "My brother and I used to get into all kinds of scrapes.   _Derm-Reg_ was always handy to keep around, in case Mom decided to take an interest that week.  I got good at it.  Went through a phase of wanting to be a doctor and everything.  So will you be staying long here?" he asked, managing to sound reasonably casual.

Spock did this thing which Jim could only label the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. He didn't move, he didn't speak but he just did... _something_.  "No.  I will leave as soon as my business is finished here."

"And what is your business if you don't mind me asking?"

The Vulcan didn't quite meet his eyes as he sat down on another stool, a little distance away from Jim. "Plomeeks."

Jim grinned. "Uh-huh.  Yeah, pretty aggressive plomeeks you got there, you should probably me more careful.  No wife?  Husband?"

The eyes remained averted. "No.  My work takes precedence over anything else."

Before he could stop and edit himself, Jim asked, "Any interest in an ex-junkie hooker with a genius level IQ?"

Great. Just _great._ An _Oscar Wilde_ quote for every occasion, Jim. Really.

Spock seemed nervous, uncomfortable. "No. Thank you."

"I'm just kidding," Jim managed to recover with a feeble laugh. And then, to distract himself from the horror of _that_ , he found himself on his feet and invading the Vulcan's personal bubble. "Hey, look," he said, reaching inside his shirt to pull out a little picture attached to a chain around his neck. "My daughter."

Spock didn't lean back, as Jim expected him to. Instead he looked at the picture, face softening a little.

"My angel," Jim sighed, kissing it once before putting it away again.

Spock's eyes slowly rose to his own and Jim became aware that they were sharing the same breathing space. "James, why do remain within this...trade?" he finished, as though the word he was searching for did not have a Standard equivalent.

Jim sighed heavily, hoisting himself up on a nearby table and taking himself out of Spock's personal space. "Well," he said though it came out more like a groan.  "I met this guy when I was fifteen.  He wasn't human, not like anything I'd ever come across before.  The night I met him, I got...he..." Jim faltered a little, gathering the strength to simply bypass the nastier details.  Poor guy didn't want to know _that_. "He knocked me up, is the short version.  I didn't know what was happening to me, at first.  I thought maybe it was a parasite or something, like maybe it was going to burst out of my chest, y'know?" He paused to check if the Vulcan was regretting his question, but he found those dark eyes trained upon as though he was something fascinating. "Only, like I said, I was pregnant.  My friend, Leonard, he was the one who figured it out.  He's a doctor, so he knew why I was throwing up any time I drank milk or ate meat.  It was a pretty normal pregnancy, except for y'know, it being a male pregnancy and all."

He paused, losing himself momentarily in the warm memories of his pregnancy.  So many beautiful moments outweighing the fear and confusion.  The first time he'd felt that tiny hand against the inside of his stomach, the first he'd felt her move. The first time he'd seen her in a scan.

"Anyway, nine months gestation, standard c-section birth – everything was fine.   the town I come from, well...it's not exactly the most open minded town on Earth if you know what I mean.  They assumed I was some kind of intergalactic whore and I was pretty much driven out of town by a raging mob, led by my Mom and her husband."

The memory of being spat on, of being shoved and pushed and having his new-born daughter threatened were as fresh as ever in his mind.  His mother's face, the revulsion in her voice as she disowned him.  The dark satisfaction in Frank's eyes, as though Jim had proven everything he'd ever said about him, to be true.

He took another deep breath, cool and damp with the recent rain.

"So me and my daughter, Lily, we came here.  I wanted to join Starfleet," he laughed somewhat bitterly. "My friend Leonard told me that if I tested high enough, I might get a grant for childcare.  I went to see a guy who could have given me the scholarship and the grant right there on the spot.  Only, of course, he didn't." More memories, hot and poisonous in his blood.  He wanted to say more, _desperately_ wanted to tell this Vulcan everything, but he just couldn't. "And boy, when you're really young and desperate...y'know?  And I guess the next thing you know, you're on the street."

Jim found he couldn't look away from those dark whirlpools of curiosity.

"Why do you not simply...stop?" Spock asked, genuine questioning behind it.

"It's a little more complicated than that," Jim managed, throat constricted with the effort of not screaming out the whole thing.  If he started now, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop and then how... _how_...would he be able to walk back outside?

"Specify, please," the Vulcan requested, not missing a beat.

The words were right there, on Jim's tongue.  He wanted to tell Spock everything, as if that would somehow make everything alright.  He was moments away from doing so, when he broke the spiralling eye contact and looked away.  His heart was hammering in his throat.

"I should probably get back," he said, so softly he wasn't sure Spock had even heard, except that something akin to disappointment flashed through his eyes.  It took a massive amount of energy to force himself to stand and walk away, legs heavy and unwilling.  He looked down at them, trying to see why they were being so uncooperative and when he looked back up, his entire being jolted with shock.

His face was inches away from a familiar blonde man; seething and furious.

"Lupo!" he gasped and before he had time to even think how much this was going to hurt, Lupo's fist slammed into his face.  Pain exploded over his face, yellow light flashing before his eyes.

"What you doin? Eh?" he snarled, furious.  Behind him were five or six of his boys, all ready and desperate to do damage to anyone who stepped even remotely out of line.  They looked pumped and eager for action.

"I was...he had a cut on his back," Jim breathed, frantically trying to think of a way to avoid the situation getting nasty, especially for Spock. "And I thought he'd call the medics down here and they'd block the street off and then I couldn't do my job and I couldn't make you any money so I just ...thought if I took five minutes and healed him up myself that I could..."

"Shhh," Lupo whispered, eyes glittering spitefully as he put a grubby finger to his lips. "Get. Back. To work."

Jim nodded, knowing he should just shut and up leave, but he had never been very good at either of those things. "Lupo, he really had nothing to do with..."

CRACK! Another punch, this time directly to the side of Jim's face.  He stumbled, disorientated by the jarring agony when he heard something that forced him to find gravity and look up.

"Excuse me..."

Jim looked up, blinking through tears to see Spock still sitting at the table, face wide open and incredibly _young_ with shock, arm outstretched as if reaching for something.  His hand trembled slightly, fingers frozen and unmoving save for the tremulous shudders passing through them.

"I apologise for interfering in your business," he said, hoarse and flat with the effort of obvious control. "But I would greatly appreciate it if you _do not do that again."_

Lupo seemed unimpressed with what Jim knew was a shocking display of emotion for a Vulcan.  He sauntered over to the table, leaning one hand on either side, blonde head cocking in fake contemplation.

"The little goblin speaks," he sneered, insolently.  "Look pal, I don't care if you fuck him, bleed on him – you're still using his time.  And his time is my money.  You've kept him busy for twenty minutes.  Do you know the going rate for twenty minutes?"

The hand lowered finally and a brief look of disgust was overshadowed as Spock, who had never been with a hooker and knew nothing of the sordid rates of exchange, closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Ah," Lupo grinned widely. "Five hundred credits."

Without hesitation, Spock reached down beside his chair and brought up several hundred worth of credit chips. As he went to hand them to Lupo, the bastard grinned even more and shook his head.

"Five hundred for his time, now five hundred for mine."

Jim bit his lip to keep from crying out how sorry he was for getting Spock involved in all this, how much he hated himself and wished he'd never set foot inside the fucking shop.  He bit until he tasted blood and then bit even harder, viciously savouring the bitter ooze.

Spock handed over the thousand credits without having blinked once.  Lupo was laughing softly under his breath, stowing away the chips with relish. "My kinda client," he chuckled.

It seemed to be over, finally.  Lupo, his boys and Jim all headed for the door leaving Spock in silence. Again, Jim knew he should be silent but he just wanted to make sure this wasn't going to have anything more to do with Spock.  One glance at Lupo's boys told him that they wouldn't think twice about coming back later and starting shit just for the hell of it.

"Please..." was all Jim got out before Lupo swung his arm back, about to slam it into Jim's face once more but it never connected.  Lupo was yanked backwards suddenly with stunning force and velocity; the look on his face might have been comical, had Jim not been so terrified.  When he landed with a loud SMACK on the table at which Spock had previously been seated, it became clear that Spock had pulled him backwards.  In the next second, Spock backhanded him across the face hard enough to shatter bone.  Lupo made an interestingly high pitched noise and everyone in the room froze for one whole second.

And then everything happened very fast.

* * *

 

Detachment, Spock had been taught from a very young age, was the art of logic.  The ability to stand back from a situation and see the basic facts was an ability expected of every upstanding Vulcan.  To coolly, calmly analyse and assess any scenario, regardless of personal involvement or opinion was considered to be a valuable asset; one which must be employed at all times.

In this, Spock had excelled.  To any other race, it would have been labelled cold heartedness; to a Vulcan, it was an impressively structured wall of logic and distanced reason.  No matter which scenario he was presented with, he never faltered.

During training to become an agent of the Vulcan High Council, Spock had seen terrible things.  He had been exposed to all kinds of depravity and horror, in order to fully desensitise his reactions.  He had been shown real life footage of deaths, murders, rapes, tortures and much worse.  The wall he had constructed after his sixteenth year held strong; nothing touched him, nothing ever would – not again.

He had seen beings die before him; only a few days ago he had watched Komack beat a human man to death and he had stood idly by, unmoving and uncaring.  Death was inevitable; only method and due date varied.

And yet...

And yet, this human boy, James, had affected him.  Somehow, this young boy had compromised his shields, damaged valuable infrastructure comprising the wall he had constructed around himself.  Spock had no explanations for it, none whatsoever.

And where he had been able to watch a human man die in agony and brutality, not days before this...he could not see James hurt.  Could not stand so idly by as the white blonde, snarling human raised his fist against him.

Before he knew what had happened, he was reaching forward blindingly fast and pulling the filthy being backwards, over the table.  His only instinct was to hurt him, make him feel what he was doing to James.  He felt the jaw break under his superior strength and grim, raw satisfaction flooded through him, electrifying long since dulled nerve endings in a stream of adrenaline.

He felt his back teeth grinding together, only managing to swallow the growl that erupted in his throat.

' _You shall not hurt him_ ,' was the only thought in his mind for that one glorious moment before everything descended into chaos.

The man, Lupo, had not come alone.  The men who had accompanied him sprang into life and threw themselves at Spock, furious and incredulous at what had just happened.

Spock moved easily, much faster than any human could accomplish; varying centres of gravity worked well in his favour.  He ducked the first blow with no effort, swinging his body around and slamming his elbow into the throat of the one behind him, poised to strike.  The man spluttered and gasped, falling to the ground in spasms.  A punch landed squarely on Spock's jaw, but it barely registered.  He turned to retaliate; the punch crushed into the man's windpipe, doubling him over in breathless agony. Spock then swung his kneecap up, hard and fast into his face.  He dropped, unconscious to the floor.

The third came faster than the others, landing a powerful kick in Spock's side, hitting his heart.  The pain was instantaneous and disorientating; it was like a thickly formed electric shock. Spock gasped, fighting the urge to clutch the place where his heart was and instead spun around to face the attacked.  He shot out his right arm, almost too fast for the human to see, and caught him by the throat.  The human’s eyes widened as he clawed at Spock's arm. Spock ignored it and lifted the human off the ground with ease.

The desire to crush the human's oesophagus was overwhelming.  The man's face was turning a most fascinating shade of purple as he choked and gasped for air.  Spock's fingers flexed and prepared for the sickly ooze that would soon be flooding his fingers.

"God, oh Jesus fucking Christ!"

He blinked, the gasping voice of James Kirk yanking him back to reality with a resounding _'SNAP_!'  His grip on the man faltered as he turned to the left and saw James standing a good distance away, staring open mouthed at Spock as he was preparing to kill the vile, odorous human in his grasp.

' _Why?  Why am I about to kill this being?'_

Spock's vision blurred for a moment as he realised he was doing it for James.  The shock of that hit him hard, harder than any of the blows he had received from the pathetic humans.

Detachment...a far off concept just then. 

He let the human drop, spluttering and wheezing on the ground.  A swift kick to the face and he was rendered unconscious.

Spock stared at his hand...the hand that had asked Lupo not to strike James Kirk, the hand that had given him credits to pay for James's company, the hand that had broken his jaw, the hand that had struck and injured these men, the hand that had been in the process of killing for no constructive reason.  The hand that was shaking, bloody and unsure of where exactly to go next.

His eyes flickered to James, to his hand and then back to James again.

The boy was deathly white, hands curled around the back of his own neck in a vaguely protective gesture.  His eyes were wide and his lips parted slightly.

"You...you..." he said, quietly, unable to look anywhere but at Spock.  "Why did you do that?"

' _For you. To protect you,'_ came the answer, from somewhere Spock had no control over.  He couldn't speak, couldn't force his mouth to create words and lies in fluent Standard.

When he did not receive an answer, James's face tightened a little and he looked almost angry, had he not been shaking as badly as Spock.

"Why did you do that?  I didn't ask you to do that!" he shouted.

"You prefer I allow them to beat you?" Spock demanded in a voice too sharp to be anything other than human.

"Do you know what you've done?  What you're involved in now?" James yelled, moving away from the corner he had shoved himself into. He gestured wildly with his hands. "Look!  Look what you've done!"

"They were hurting you!" Spock fairly snarled.

"That's not exactly new!" James shouted back.

"Frequency does not lend justification to their actions."

For some reason, that seemed to make James even more furious.

"I'm a whore, all right!" James said in a shuddering breath, the anger pooling in his eyes.  He moved closer to Spock, until their faces were only inches away. "I'm a fucking prostitute; someone's property, do you understand that?  I don't need someone showing up and saving me from my life, OK?  I don't need you doing this for me, thinking you're making it all better!  This is what I am!" He had been growing steadily louder, the entire time until he was screaming. "I'm a fucking whore, do you understand that?   _Not. Worth. Saving!_ "

He took a breath, looking as though he had been physically slapped again.  He broke eye contact with Spock, looking left, right, left, right, down.  Slammed his eyes closed and shook his head.

It was eight full seconds later that Spock responded softly, "You are wrong, James."

"No," he gasped, unable to raise his eyes to the Vulcan. "It's all true."

"I cannot accept that.  I do not know why I have done this, and apologise profusely because I know I have made your life infinitely more difficult.  But you are gravely mistaken if you for one moment believe what others have attempted to drill into your subconscious."

The words coming out of his mouth were so unfamiliar, Spock genuinely wondered if it was actually himself speaking them.

"James, look at me," he said and watched the play of emotions as the boy visibly struggled to control himself; something Spock seemed highly incapable of at present time.  "I must vacate this area immediately.  I can offer no guarantee for your safety if you accompany me, the same is also true if you remain here.  You must decide immediately."

The human threw his head back a little, blinking back tears, and when he hit Spock with the full force of his gaze, the Vulcan felt the dizzying sensation of earlier, creeping into his blood once again.

"I'm coming with you."

* * *

 

_  
_


	4. Right Place, Wrong Time

* * *

**-Chapter Four: Right Place, Wrong Time-**

_Six Years Ago on Vulcan_

" _Mother, I am fully capable of seeing to my own health, thank you," Spock had insisted without really insisting it at all. Such was the art of all Vulcans; to express without ever expressing. The language was built for such a way of life; devoid of frivolous expression and passion. Every part of it concise and useful; direct and unswervingly clear. Standard, by comparison, was a messy language to learn; full of rules made to be broken, words than had three, sometimes four entirely different meanings and most common of all...idioms._

_Amanda rolled her eyes good naturedly, patient as ever with her son's aloofness._

" _You did not sleep well," she informed him for the third time. "You look very ill, Spock. You should not attend school today – truly, you look unwell."_

_She too was speaking in Vulcan – hence the straightforward approach._

" _I slept well, Mother. Even if I did not, it would be unforgivable illogic to risk any small part of my education owing to lack of sleep."_

_She sighed and shrugged. Spock felt a small sense of achievement. As the years wore on, he found himself increasingly able to stand his ground in debates. He had only turned sixteen a few days ago, yet he already began to feel older – somehow separate from his childhood years._

_True, he had slept extremely poorly the night before; he had not been able to shake a very unpleasant feeling that something was deeply, on a very basic level, not right at all. His skin had seemed to writhe over his bones and he had the beginnings of painful headache, but it did not remotely justify missing school, even for one day._

" _Do not concern yourself, please," he added in a softer tone, because he knew how much Amanda sometimes enjoyed having him all to herself. "I am...I am..."_

_The words 'perfectly well' were poised and ready to fall off his tongue when his vision swayed dangerously and he felt as though he had been dropped headfirst into a dark, deep ocean. The wrongness that had been creeping through his blood all last night was rearing up like some monstrous tide, furious and wild._

_Spock did not realise he had collapsed to the floor. He did not realise he was screaming. He would not remember such details. In fact, he would claim not to recall anything about the horrifying incident._

_And Vulcans did not lie, did they?_

* * *

 

Jim Kirk's feet and legs had started to seriously ache about three miles back, but he'd kept his mouth shut.  Seeing the Vulcan stride along ahead forced him to attempt bravery.  However, after another particularly painful twinge in the back of his thigh, he let out a soft groan.

"Fuck _me,_ " he breathed, stopping and flexing his leg. Spock, who had been mid stride, stumbled a little and spun around, eyes almost comically wide.

"Excuse me?" he asked, somewhat high pitched.

Jim realised the double entendre of his complaint and laughed, wincing when his jaw throbbed. "Sorry.  I didn't mean it like that.  My feet hurt, is all."

Eying Jim suspiciously, the Vulcan nodded slowly. "I see.  We must continue to walk, James.  There is no safe method of transportation available in our current situation.  If you," he paused, hesitation pulling the words back in for a moment.  "If have decided upon a different course of action, you must acknowledge it now.  It would be wise of you to leave and seek assistance elsewhere."

Jim smirked. "Man, you just have this intimate relationship with language, huh?  What a long winded way of saying, _'Speak up if you're gettin' cold feet!'_ "

Spock raised a slender eyebrow. "I understood only 16% of that entire statement."

"Whatever.  Can we stop for a rest or something?  I can't walk all night like this."

"Walking helps me think."

"Walking hurts my feet!"

"Then return to where you were before," Spock suggested, somewhat tightly, starting to walk briskly once more.

"Oh sure, just like that!" Jim exclaimed, jogging to catch up. "First you put me in this mess, then think you can just get rid of me!"

Spock stopped dead and Jim almost walked right into him, but stopped himself in time.  The tall alien loomed over him, glaring through the darkness of the streets.

"I put you in this mess?  I seem to recall you were the one who insisted upon using the facilities inside the shop.  You were the one who repeatedly offered to administer first aid.  I asked nothing of you, save to be left alone."

Though no-one would have ever believed Jim if he'd told them, the Vulcan's voice had been growing steadily louder the entire time.  Again, Jim felt as though he should have been intimidated, and again...wasn't.

"Oh yeah, that's you!" he snapped, trying and failing to catch up as Spock strode off once again into the night. "Don't need anything, don't need anybody!  Just got yourself and your stupid job selling Vulcan chips!"

Spock halted once more, turning and facing Jim with those eyes.

"I do not sell _Ceulari's,"_ Spock informed him sternly.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well I figured that out. I mean I'm stupid, but I'm not that fucking stupid!"

The Vulcan continued to eye him for a few moments before saying, "I am an agent of the High Vulcan Council."

"I'm Santa Claus," Jim deadpanned.

Spock stared blankly. "Who?"

"Oh never mind," Jim dismissed irritably. He winced, trying to shift the pain out of his leg and attempting to not fall over in the process. Spock reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a PADD, scrolling through a few pages.

Jim peered at it, seeing a map. "Where we goin'?" he asked, gingerly flexing his knee.

Without looking back up at him, Spock replied, "A hotel."

Annoyed at not being given a full answer, Jim peered even further, craning his neck to see the place Spock was zooming in upon. The name of the hotel came up in the right hand side of the PADD and the bottom of Jim's stomach dropped out.

"Wh...why do you want to go there?" he asked, stepping back a little.

Spock glanced up, frowning slightly at Jim's expression. "In my experience, when you lose your way, the best place to go is back to the beginning."

Jim swallowed; it echoed in his ears. _Gary, the music, the Vulcans, screaming..._

"The beginning of what?" he asked, mouth suddenly dry.

Eyes never leaving Jim's, Spock answered, "My assignment. Wednesday night."

No. No, no, _no_. How could this be happening? Jim thought all that was behind him.

"You...you were there that night?" he gasped. Spock's eyes were searching Jim's face for any indication of what was causing his reaction.

"Working in cooperation with the Admiral," he told Jim.

"Komack?" Jim breathed.

"You know him?" Now it was the Vulcan's turn to sound shocked.

Numbly, Jim nodded. "Yeah, I...I was there too."

Something resembling comprehension washed over Spock's face and for a moment he looked irritated. "The other boy.  The sickly one."

"Hey!" Jim managed. "I wasn't doing so great, OK?  I don't usually look like such a sack of shit, thank you very much!  Did you see me?  I didn't see you."

"I have been unforgivably remiss," Spock ground out, ignoring Jim's question. "I cannot fully comprehend my reasons for not recognising you, although I did not at any point see your face up close."

"I guess we all start to look alike after a while," Jim mused weakly. 

Spock fixed his gaze even more intently upon Jim. "You must come with me."

"Hey, hold up!  A minute ago, you couldn't wait to get rid of me!"

"You, James Kirk, are my proof," he declared. "I will take you to the Council and you will tell them everything.  You can clear my name."

Horror welled up in Jim's stomach and he shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No, I can't do that. I'm in deep enough, I'm not gonna be a witness!"

"But you are the only person who can exonerate me," he said, as though that explained everything.

"Don't you get it?" Jim yelled. "Komack has my daughter!  But you don't think about that, do you?  You don't think about what's gonna happen to her, happen to me!  Of course not!  The only thing that matters to you is your job!  'Cos that's all you've got!"

Spock stared at Jim, lips parted slightly.  He didn't seem to be breathing, so Jim continued.

"You take Komack down, so what?  You'll leave an opening for another bent son of a bitch to take his place, one who we all hope will be less of a fucker than the last one and _that's_ reality!  Maybe," he shouted, poking Spock in the chest with his index finger.  "It's not _your_ reality, but it's my reality _every day,_ 24/7 and there's nothing you or anyone else can do to change that _!_ "

Furious with himself for allowing yet another outburst to own him so thoroughly, Jim turned away and began to walk, despite the pain in his leg.  He heard footsteps behind him as Spock tried to catch up.

"Wait," Spock implored.  Jim stopped, telling himself it was because of his calf muscles and nothing else. "If I get your daughter back, will you help me?"

Jim groaned softly, wishing he could believe what Spock was offering him.  His weary heart ached to see her again, being apart from her was unbearable.

"No, I'm...I'm really screwed this time," he said, cracking on the last word.

He felt a warm hand close around his and a bolt of something strong and golden shot through him. "My people will give you sanctuary, they will keep you safe," he said.

"Where?  On Vulcan?  I mean, I like the chips, but no thanks."

The hand tightened. " _I_ will keep you safe," Spock promised. "I know you have had some bad experiences trusting people, but if I gave you my word that you will be safe...you and your daughter...would you trust me, James?"

A long moment seemed to stretch endlessly. Jim was hyper aware of Spock's hand on his, of the chance he was being offered. The risks were obvious; looming large and frightening in the forefront of his mind but for some reason Jim couldn't shake the feeling that trusting Spock was the right thing to do.

He took a deep breath and exhaled his reply, "Yes."

A look of intense relief cross Spock's face before it was chased away to be replaced instantly with controlled neutrality. "Thank you, James."

"I don't know why I'm trusting you," Jim warned. "I really don't, but I am.  So...don't screw me over, OK?"

Managing to look entirely serious, Spock said, "I will most certainly not screw you over."

Jim sniggered, tried and failed to cover it with a cough. "All right, so what do we do now?  You have a plan, right?" When his question was met with silence, he blinked and said, "Tell me you have a plan!"

The Vulcan replied, "I do indeed have a plan. But I do not think you will like it."

* * *

 

As it turned out, Spock was correct.  His plan – to locate Jim's daughter by sneaking into Komack's office and retrieving the data – had not gone down well at all.  After a few more unpleasant exchanges, Jim finally agreed, wrenching his fear to one side and thinking of his daughter and how it would feel to hold her again.

Of all the things in Jim's life, his baby daughter was the best.  The absolute greatest thing he'd ever done, ever had.  There had been so much shit; pain, guilt, shame all muddled into potentially soul destroying darkness and then there had been his baby.  She had come out of something so horrible, so devastating...

And he'd lost her.

That night was branded into his memory. _Komack offering the first hypo, Gary kissing his neck, trailing hands everywhere and Jim wasn't even going to consider it. He just wanted a little help, just enough so they could get by. His daughter back at the tiny little apartment, babysat by the nice old lady next door and Jim knew he had to get back to her...that he wasn't going to do any of the things Komack was offering, because he wasn't that stupid._

_And then without warning, the hypo slid into his neck with a gentle hiss and the world had exploded in velvet heat; unbearable waves of pleasure bolting through his system, making his eyes roll back in head and the last thing he remembered was Gary whispering in his ear how much fun they were going to have._

_He had woken up the next day in his apartment, on the floor, face down. His head thundering, body trembling and stomach in agonising knots. Something was very, very wrong. It was too quiet, way too quiet._

" _Lily?" he croaked, throat aching like it had been punched. His body was starting to register all sorts of pains and aches, cuts and abrasions but he ignored them. "Baby?"_

_She was gone. Gone. Taken, under the pretence of social care. There was a notification left on his PADD, that he would numbly read later when he realised it was beeping. She'd been taken away from him, and he hadn't even been there to stop them._

Jim stumbled, losing his footing as he made his way up the stairs.  The pain of that still threatened to strangle to life out of him.  The knowledge, deep down, that it was Komack behind the whole thing. Taken the one good thing he'd ever had.

Jim looked down at his trembling hands, trying to gather up the courage to go through with the stupid, very Un-Vulcan plan.  If it meant he might get his daughter back, he could do it.  Yeah, he could do this.

He didn't get another five feet before one of Komack's guys was aiming at gun Jim's face, demanding to know what he was doing there.

"I'm here to see Komack, you asshole," Jim spat. "I know where the Vulcan is.”

* * *

 

Of all the temporary partnerships in his previously well executed career, Spock realised that this was the first time he had ever had to fully trust someone. The realisation was almost intimidating, but he knew there was no point in questioning it now.  James Kirk was inside, speaking to Komack; he had only to mention that Spock was one street away, hiding in shadows and awaiting Jim's return.

And although all his extensive training had advised him against ever trusting another being or even involving one, he could not help but feel a small flicker of something resembling...hope.  He couldn't bring himself to distrust this human, though it was obvious that he _should_.

James was a whore and an addict; property of Richard Komack, the man who's illicit career further depended upon Spock's death.  There were a hundred reasons to turn and leave, seek refuge on Vulcan and not return to this vulgar, unpleasant planet ever again.

Yet...yet he could not tolerate that.  No.  He would wait and James would return with the location of his daughter.  They would liberate her from wherever she was being held, James would then bear witness to Spock's innocence and Komack would be arrested and stopped.

Of course, Spock knew it would be vastly more complicated than that.  Life and all its intricacies had taught him this, time and time again.  Unpredictable aspects in an ever changing scenario meant that nothing was ever simple, even if it seemed so.  The most worrying aspect of all this was James and his daughter would likely become bigger targets than even Spock once Komack realised what James was prepared to do.

But he would worry about that when the time came.  If he didn't prioritise, then he would lose focus; without focus, nothing could be achieved.

Jim had been inside the building for thirty four minutes. Spock was becoming concerned; surely it should not have taken this length of time for James to send Komack off in the wrong direction, and then ascertain his child's whereabouts.

Seven minutes later, James came into view.  He was sporting a fresh bruise to the face and his wrist was bleeding badly. Spock sprang into action, reaching to inspect the injured wrist at once.  James shook him away irritably.

"It's nothing," he lied, cradling it away from Spock who raised an eyebrow until he relented.  "He tied me to a fucking water pipe," he explained as Spock tenderly examined the wound; it was a deep slash, thankfully just missing a particularly thick vein.  It was bleeding and would leave a scar if not regenerated.

"So you proceeded to liberate yourself by removing a large chunk of flesh from your wrist?"

James scowled and winced as Spock pulled the skin apart slightly. "I was in a bit of a God damned hurry!  I wasn't exactly watching what I was cutting."

Suppressing a sigh, Spock tore a strip of material from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped it around James's wrist. "Did you procure the necessary information?"

"Kind of.  I sent Komack to a guy who I _really_ don't like; told him he was hiding you there," he sniggered.  Spock didn't even bother to question the total lack of logic in that.  "Lily's in an orphanage. Can you fucking believe that?  I didn't even think they still existed, let alone in San Francisco!  Anyway, there was no address, but there was the name of a social worker, Amber Sholan.  I remember Richard mentioning her, he told me she was the one who took Lily away.  She's probably on the take, gotta know where Lily is."

Still touching James's skin, Spock was helpless to keep out the barrage of thoughts and feelings emanating from the human.  Fury, desperation, sorrow, guilt.  He worked hard to maintain some defences against them, but it didn't seem to work.  There was something powerfully _familiar_ about this human's thoughts and feelings and trying to push them from his own subconscious felt _wrong_.

"Hey!  Hey!  Wakey wakey!" Jim waved his hand in front of Spock's face and it was enough to bring him back to a satisfactory level of focus.

"I apologise.  Your thoughts are...distracting," he commented, as neutrally as possible.

James blinked and then something behind his eyes flickered.  "Touch telepathy," he muttered and nodded as though he understood completely.  "Anyway, I got her home address, wrote it down." He reached for the inside of the flimsy jacket and gasped in pain.  "OK, maybe I was being a little blasé earlier; that _fucking_ hurts!"

"Will you allow me to relieve the pain?" Spock offered.  James glanced up warily.

"Like how?  I don't really want to you trying any hokey pokey Vulcan voodoo...ahhh!" He cut off with a yelp as Spock pinched a nerve in the crook of his arm, causing the flow of blood to slow and the muscles around the wounded area to relax considerably.  "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Spock shrugged simply.  "Hokey pokey Vulcan voodoo."

"Oh, hah hah!  What did you do?  I can't feel any pain."

"Do not concern yourself with such matters.  We should proceed."

Five minutes worth of silent walking was broken when James seemed unable to resist anymore.

"Seriously, I know you're probably not allowed to tell me, but what _was_ that thing you did to my arm?"

Spock sighed, barely even surprised that James was asking again.

"It is a simple medical procedure," he replied shortly, focusing on heading in the correct direction, while formulating a plan.

"Uh-huh," James said, disbelief in all his expression. "I'm sure it is a medical procedure.  But that's not _all_ it is, am I right?"

"You are far too astute for me, James Kirk," Spock answered distractedly. "I bow to your superior intellect and wisdom."

James stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my God, did you just make a joke?"

Spock realised what he'd said and the tone in which he had said it.   _Sarcasm_.  That could not be good; clearly the human was a bad influence upon him.

"No," he denied; which was a lie.   _Another_ human vice.

James smiled and it did something strange to the lower area of Spock's spine.

"Yes, you _totally_ did!  You cracked a joke!  You were sarcastic and rude and you made a joke!" he exclaimed, entirely too gleefully for Spock's liking.

"I did not ' _crack a joke'_ as you so incorrectly phrase it," Spock tried to defend himself, turning back to a grinning James Kirk. "I simply stated facts as they may be interpreted by yourself and others."

"It's OK to be sarcastic sometimes," he pointed out softly, stepping a little closer to Spock, who froze. "It's OK to be human."

"A deeply racist ideology," Spock mumbled, his lips feeling oddly numb and he had absolutely _no idea_ why. "We have very little time, Mr Kirk."

James's eyebrow rose a little. "So now it's Mr Kirk?  I think maybe you're a little uncomfortable with being around humans, Mr Spock.  Maybe even being around me."

' _The complete opposite, actually,'_ he mused.

James' eyes lit up and his jaw dropped. "Really? I thought that was just me!"

Spock started.  Had he said that out loud?  "I did not..."

"Because we're not really talking about it, are we?" James went on, inching closer and closer. "Y'know, the whole insanity of this scenario kinda takes priority and that's as it should be but...I'm not imagining it, am I?  This." He gestured between himself and Spock, waiting for some signal of agreement.  When Spock couldn't open his mouth to answer, James took his silence as an answer.  "I knew it," he breathed. "You can feel it too."

This was not happening.  S'chn T'gai Spock was a highly trained agent of the Vulcan High Council.  He was _not_ being placed in an untenable position by this...this _boy_.  He opened his mouth to deny it; to demand that James Kirk focus on the task at hand and maintain a more professional attitude.

But what came out was this.

"I have known you before."

The words were unfamiliar and shocking to his own ears. James gaped at him.

"You have?"

"There is a deeply ingrained sense of recognition that I cannot logically explain, but it is there nonetheless.  I know you, James."

He expected a backlash; James denying it, telling him that they had never met before - because they definitely had not – and was more than shocked when it did not come.

"That makes sense, kinda," the human replied softly. "I can't explain it, but there's something here, isn't there?  I'm not crazy.  There's something between us."

"There is."

Spock wouldn't have known he was speaking, had he not recognised his own voice.

There was that sad little smile again and Spock violently suppressed the urge to caress the corners of James's mouth that curled up.  "Pretty fucked up timing, right?"

"Agreed."

"Well," he sighed. "Guess we can always delve into this later.  Gonna be plenty of time for that on Vulcan."

Spock paused and tried to be carefully with his phrasing.  "You...you indicated previously that you would be averse to retreating to Vulcan for asylum."

James smiled. "Things change."

They continued to make their way towards the social worker's domicile, a few miles away, and Spock could not help but smile inwardly with some fragile, wholly mysterious sense of hope.

* * *

 

There were definite downsides to being on the payroll of organised crime, Amber decided glumly to herself as she shut her PADD off with a flourish. The last two payments had yet to go into her account and she hadn't been able to get in contact with Komack. Something wasn't quite right, but what was she supposed to do? Go to her supervisor and complain that she wasn't being compensated accordingly for breaking the law?

She sighed and drank her tea, hoping it would soothe the building headache behind her eyes. Tomorrow she would go to Komack and demand payment; she wasn't risking her career and her life for nothing.

Finally giving up on the tea, she was about to retreat to bed when she heard a sound. A small soft sound; like a footfall perhaps. She paused mid-step towards the kitchen and strained her ears. Silence. She must have been imagining it. Maybe she needed to get more sleep, yes that would be it. She got another two yards closer to the kitchen when it happened.

Out of nowhere, a pair of hot hands grabbed her and clamped over her mouth, forcing her to swallow the scream before it could escape. There was a scuffle; she tried to yank herself free but the body behind her was strong and unmoving. It drove her to her knees and a blindfold was pulled over her eyes.

Panic was strangling her, deep and strong within her chest. She could think, couldn't move. The hands over her mouth were removed and a low, baritone voice growled in her ear, "It would be wise for you not to speak until spoken to."

Shakily, horribly thrown off by the blindness, Amber nodded.

Another voice, male and American, came from directly in front of her. The other man was still behind, restraining her tightly.

"Do you work for Komack?" the American, who sounded a lot younger than the other, asked.

"No," she lied breathlessly. "I work for CPS, my name is Amber Sholan!"

SMACK! A powerful slap right across her face took the remaining vestiges of breath she had, clean away.

"Allow me to rephrase," the boy asked. "We _know_ you work for Richard Komack. What exactly is it you do for him? If you lie again, my friend behind you is going to snap your fingers clean off."

She felt her index finger drawn apart from the others and bent backwards in an obvious threat.

"I...I don't work for him, I do him favours!" she spat. "He pays me to do him favours!"

"Give us an example?"

When she didn't speak, the finger was bent until she screamed. "OK, OK! Jesus fucking Christ, I'm not dying for that asshole! He pays me to keep tabs on some of the kids, where they go, who has them, stuff like that. Sometimes I alter their destinations, put them where he wants them," she panted.

There was a heavy silence, broken only when the American boy spoke, voice tight enough to tune a piano.

"Where is Lily Kirk?"

"Wh-who? I don't know, I redirect a lot of kids!"

The finger snapped and broke clean in half. Amber tried to scream, but the hand was back over her mouth, clamping so hard she thought she might pass out.

"TELL ME!"

She nodded, tears streaming down her face. The hand moved away enough for her to speak.

"I remember her; toddler, pretty blonde thing! She's in the orphanage on Mesa Street, OK? Just let me go!"

There was a long breath of silence before the blow to her head and the world faded into unconsciousness. 

* * *

 

Once they'd gotten far enough away to stop for a moment, Jim fell to his knees and felt bile rise up in his throat again. The adrenaline was fading, leaving his muscles burning and aching and the feeling of dread and horror was coming up with his remaining stomach acids.

There was a hand on his back, gently soothing him.

"Breathe, James," the beautiful, low voice instructed. "You did well."

Jim shook his head, wiping his mouth when the convulsions stopped. "It's not that," he croaked. "I just...I just realised that she's been _alone_ this whole time and I..." he choked off the next words, as tears sprang to his eyes and he couldn't stop the sob erupting from his throat. Before he could even let his head fall down, Spock pulled him around to face him and into his arms.

The embrace was so unexpected, it almost stopped him from crying. Jim wasn't ignorant; Vulcans despised and abhorred close, intimate contact. This was _not normal_. Still, the sorrow in his chest could not be contained.

"You are not alone, James," Spock practically purred. "I am here, I will get you your daughter back...I swear."

Jim nodded numbly and drew back slowly, looking through tear glazed eyes at the Vulcan who was suddenly so close to his own face that he could have kissed him by moving on a fraction of an inch.

As it was, Jim didn't move at all.

But Spock did.

The kiss was soft, tentative and almost invisible. In sharp contrast, Jim felt all the breath pulled from him in one motion, like being punched with a velvet sledgehammer. Spock stared at him as though stunned by his own actions.

"I...I am so sorry, James. I cannot offer any explanation for my behav..."

Jim crushed his mouth to Spock's, letting his eyes fall shut. He half expected Spock to shove him away, but he didn't. Instead, the Vulcan's arms encircled him and pulled him flush against his body. They were both kneeling in a dark, poorly lit street and anyone could walk past but that really didn't seem to matter in the slightest. Spock's lips were soft and almost unbearably hot; they moved against Jim's with a yearning urgency and when that slip of a tongue ran over Jim's bottom lip, Jim let out a groan.

The kiss broke as suddenly as it had begun; Jim realised he was responsible for that.

"We can't," he breathed, realising his hands were tangled in Spock's silky smooth hair. "This is the _worst_ time and as much as I..."

Spock recaptured his lips again and Jim's words were lost momentarily. Oh God, Oh holy Jesus _Christ_ that Vulcan knew how to kiss and it was setting off some kind of chain reaction, trailing heat all the way down Jim's spine, into his skin, and melting him despite the cold air all around them.

"No!" he insisted, pulling away more firmly. "Please, we have to get my daughter.  That, and I kinda just threw up."

Spock looked like he could have cared less about Jim's throwing up, but the daughter issue seemed to hit him hard and some of the heat that was blazing in those dark eyes, dissipated.

"Of course," he said, pulling Jim up to his feet in one motion. "I apologise.  I could not...tolerate seeing you cry."

Jim's heart was close to bursting with the unfamiliar and horribly timed emotions, but he shoved it aside.

"We get Lily and then we can...uh, discuss...this.  In more, y'know. Detail," he gasped.

Spock nodded, smoothing his hair back and taking what looked suspiciously like a calming breath. "Agreed."

* * *

 

The building was dark and somewhat foreboding, or maybe it only seemed that way to Jim. He hated buildings; openly despised them. Things, places that were trapped and contained in one place forever. Tied to the earth; places to cry and sit alone until you died one day, inside the unmoving walls.

Ever since he'd been young, Jim had dreamed of going into space. Of leaving this dirty planet behind, leaving all the innate claustrophobia and boredom and flying off into the enormity of space. He dreamed of places unknown, untouched by human hands. Of new species, untold dangers and adventures. He'd even dreamed of having someone by his side through all that; someone who would understand him beyond what he could ever hope for.

_Those_ dreams weren't just vague ambitions and hopes. They were actual dreams. Real manifestations of his subconscious, playing out in a golden blur while he slept. When he was young, he dreamt of another child; a strange, serious but somewhat shy child with jet black hair and dark, wide eyes. Then, when he hit thirteen the dreams had taken a less innocent swing in a much more interesting direction. It was the same dark haired boy, only taller now; much taller.  Leaning over Jim with an intensity that shocked through him, always a hair's breadth away from touching his lips to Jim's...always able to feel the heat from that body without ever having come into contact with it.

Then it had changed again, after...after he'd got pregnant.  Jim's dreams had been overtaken by a different figure; someone _else_ entirely.  And then, only a few days after giving birth, those dark eyes returned, only now belonging to a grown man. A man dressed in blue and black and Jim was wearing gold and they stood side by side, staring out at space.  No kissing, no wild fits of passion because there were other people in this dream; family.  But they shared something else, something that didn't require the spoken word.  There was an overwhelming sense of belonging and it made Jim's heart ache to even think of it now.

Dreams.  Only dreams.  Not real.

Reality was that his daughter was in danger, he was a whore who had allowed her to be taken.  A failure in all things; a failed human being who had given up everything for the hiss of a hypo and the sweet darkness that swallowed him whole each time.  He had done terrible, soul destroying things; allowed people to do things to him for money he'd never see.  To maintain a life of degradation and sadism.

He wasn't an idiot. He _knew_ Spock and he knew exactly where from, only...only this Spock wasn't the one from his dreams.  His eyes were hardened with something like too much experience of the universe's darker areas.  He didn't wear the blue uniform, he wore all black and was obviously something of a trained killer. 

But then again, Jim wasn't the Jim from his dreams either.  Jim had never worn that gold uniform, never would at this rate.  He didn't have any family; he wasn't Captain of a starship.

He was disgrace. A worthless whore who'd lost the only good thing he'd ever had.

"Ahem," Spock coughed pointedly. "James, please refrain from such self-deprecation."

Jim shook himself and looked around, realising he was crouched down besides Spock and that his bare arm was pressed against Spock's wrist.

"Sorry," he muttered and moved away, blushing furiously. "So, what's the plan?"

The Vulcan's eyes were fixed rigidly upon Jim.  He waited for a very long moment before replying, in that low voice, "I will go inside and retrieve your daughter, bring her outside and take you both to safety."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh, not to interrupt your happily ever after, but nothing ever goes that smoothly.  Y'know, do you have like...details?  How are you going to get in?  How are you going to know which one is Lily?  What if there's security?"

"Your tactical foresight is impressive," Spock whispered evenly. "However, I have taken all factors into account and am well prepared for any occurrence or anomaly."

Jim waited for an explanation that was apparently never coming and then he realised why he wasn't being given crucial information.

"You think you're leaving me here?" he demanded incredulously. "Oh, man!  That is seriously fucking funny."

Spock's eyes bored into him relentlessly. "I see no humour in that assumption."

Jim grabbed Spock by the collar and yanked him dangerously close to his own face, stopping short of actual contact.

"That is my daughter!" he snarled. "My _baby_ in there and if you think for one second that I'm gonna sit here nice and safe while she's in danger then you're out of your fucking mind!"

He expected Spock to come up with some dry quip about not understanding the idiom, only he didn't. He swallowed once, so loudly that Jim could hear it, and then he nodded silently.

With shaking fingers, he let go of Spock and allowed him to regain some personal space.

"OK then.  So fill me in on the plan."

* * *

 

S'chn T'gai Spock had only been afraid twice in his entire existence.

Certainly he had been cautious; used his instincts to avoid injury and trouble.  He had utilised the sensation mistakenly referred to as fear and had successfully gained the advantage where others might have given in to the spiking adrenaline rush simulating terror through the nervous system.

But he had only ever genuinely been afraid, actually frightened twice.

The first time had been when he was younger.

This was the second time.

Somewhere, his perfect plan had contained a fatal flaw; in that he had underestimated his enemy. With the additional support of hindsight, it seemed painfully obvious that Komack would send his men to take Lily Kirk before James could get to her. It was evident that he would leave behind armed subordinates. Why he hadn't thought of it before was unclear and he didn't have the brain capacity at hand to give it any further thought.

Because he was terrified.

James was pale, bleeding out fast from a traditional stab wound to the chest, given to him by one half of the Klingon pair. Klingons were notorious for their love of older weapons; knives, daggers, cleaving objects.  James could fight well, but not that well.

Lily Kirk was gone, taken by Komack.  After the struggle, Spock had grabbed James, breathless and white and dragged him to the nearest window.  He had pulled James close to him and fallen with purpose out of the window, landing on his back, breaking the fall for James.

Only when he yanked James upright did he notice the massive spreading stain over the boy's chest.

Dark and red...human blood. James was hurt, bleeding.

_Dying_ , his logical brain informed him.

"No," someone was saying.  "No, no, no, no."  He only realised it was himself speaking when James looked up at him, slightly dazed and confused.

"Huh?" he asked softly.  "What's...what is it?"

Then those strikingly blue eyes rolled back and Spock managed to catch him before he fell.

* * *

 

Komack stared calculatingly at the child.  She was beautiful, really.  Not in any definable way, just...like her father, there was something about her.  Even at the young age she was, four or five, she had all the beginnings of genuine, real beauty.  The kind people would pay to see on a screen.  The kind people would trust and die to protect. Just like her father.

And Komack had been just like everyone else; desperate to touch that beauty.  It had been that way from the start with Jim Kirk.  Komack hadn't been able to stop looking at him, sitting in the interview chair like it was a God damned throne.  Stunning, breathtakingly beautiful and Komack knew immediately that if he put him in a command track, he'd make Captain in record time at a record age.  It wouldn't even be anything to do with his looks, not really.  It would be that... _something_...about him. Contained within Jim Kirk, there was an endless well of strength and possibilities.

Which represented a direct threat to Komack.

So he'd lied, told Kirk that there were no positions, no help available for him and his beloved daughter. Sure, he could enlist but what about his child?  He'd need money and he obviously had none.  Komack had acted as though it was a tough decision to make, offering Jim a chance to make the money he'd need to support himself and his child during training.  He'd made it seem as though he was going out of his way for Kirk, doing him a favour.

He'd made it clear that he expected gratitude too.

The first time he'd touched the boy in anything other than a friendly pat or a handshake, had felt like an electric shock.  The excitement had built unbearably and it paid off.  Kirk wasn't stupid; he knew instantly what Komack wanted and though he was utterly unenthused, almost numb, he certainly complied.  He was experienced, too.

Watching that brightness about Jim Kirk start to fade was one of Komack's greatest achievements and pleasures.  To beat that confidence right out of him without ever actually beating him.  To see those beautiful blue eyes shutter and close the moment someone touched him.  To feel his tight, hot body all around Komack and watch the flickers of emotion tear through that young face...

Addictive might have been the word.

There was something strange about the boy though.  Despite the line of work Komack had got him into – and how successful he was within that line of work – Kirk hated to be touched.  He adjusted, yes.  He coped; he dealt with it and learned to smile quickly and react all the ways that would avoid making a client angry.  But he was just one of those people, if others existed, who were not supposed to be touched like that.  Not that Komack cared.

And now he was betraying him.  That little bastard was actually betraying him, working with that fucking Vulcan who was out to ruin him.  Jim Kirk who knew far too much, who Komack had whispered things to him the heat of stolen moments...was betraying him.

Well, that was all fine and good because Komack had his precious little daughter.

He smiled, the cold smile of a reptile and reached into his desk drawer. The child looked up at him with those piercing blue eyes as he handed her an old, outdated PADD to play with.

She didn't take it, only stared at him and asked, "Where's my Daddy?"

Komack smirked. "Your Daddy will be here soon, sweetheart.  He'll be here very soon and then you can see him.  Would you like that?"

When she smiled, it took Komack's breath away.  Yup, Jim Kirk's daughter alright.

"Yes please," she said, and took the PADD with her small hands and began to expertly rifle through it for games. "I miss my Daddy."

"So do I," Komack muttered, looking out the window at the lightening planet. "So do I."

* * *

 

 

 


	5. Break and Fall

**-Chapter Five: Break and Fall-**

Of maybe the three or four constants in James Tiberius Kirk's entire life, pain was the most recurrent. Backbones of constancy that ran through his life were few and far between; primarily his life was one massive whirlwind of change and he was forever scrabbling to keep up.  However, there was always one thing to be counted upon.

From those first few breaths in an emergency shuttle to the ones he struggled for now...each and every one was somehow marked with pain.  Companion through his wayward life, reliable and predictable to an almost worrying extent.  Pain was always there, always present.  Be it physical or the kind that's generated deep inside the chest cavities where a soul could fit, there was always some degree of pain in Jim Kirk's existence.

So when he woke up and his body was thrumming with it, he was hardly surprised. What did surprise him was that he wasn't alone.

Spock's eyes were closed, his left hand resting over Jim's in an undeniably comforting way. Jim tried to clear his throat to speak, but it was thick with something. Dried blood, maybe. The Vulcan slowly opened his eyes and Jim was taken aback by the softness and concern he saw there.

And then the creeping horror that had been building ever since he'd regained consciousness exploded over him and he couldn't breathe.

"Lily!" he croaked, struggling to sit upright and failing immensely. Every bone in his body felt as though it had been personally violated by a hammer. "Wh-where's my daughter?"

Spock didn't flinch, but that warm flesh on Jim's hand withdrew and he seemed to be preparing himself.

"She was already gone," he quietly reminded Jim.

The horror threatened to strangle him completely. "No," he sobbed, tears stinging his nose. "No, you promised...you fucking _swore_ to me she'd be safe!"

"I am aware of my promise to you, James Kirk," he said evenly. "I have contacted the High Vulcan Council, they will see to her safety once she is retrieved."

" _They_?" Jim growled. "Who are ' _they'_? I don't give a shit about ' _them'_! I don't trust _them_ , I trusted _you!_ "

Something flickered over the Vulcan's perfect face and Jim struggled to contain all that threatened to physically burst out of his chest. "You will see, James, all will be well."

"Don't you dare fucking try and placate me, you lying son of a bitch! You _swore_ to me she'd be safe! You think I give a shit about what happens to me? I'm the walking dead either way, but you...you said she'd be safe!"

Now the Vulcan looked vaguely annoyed. "Do not speak so carelessly of your own safety, James," he said, low and quiet.

That was it. That was the last straw.

More furious than he'd been in years, Jim forced himself to sit upright, ignoring the shooting agony tearing through his body, radiating in his freshly regenerated chest. "Right, that _is it_! I have had enough of your bullshit! Who the fuck do you think you are to do this to me? Talk to me like I'm some poor little runaway boy who just needs a little help, a little feeding up and some self-confidence...I mean, seriously! What the fuck are you on? I'm not a kid, OK? I'm a man and I've done more with my sorry ass life than you ever have, believe me! So don't sit there all high and fucking mighty, tryin' to sell me the _'Don't Stop Believing'_ speech! I might have fucked up my life, but at least I can acknowledge that it's _my life_. And that has got nothing to do with _you!_ Who the fuck are you to come out of nowhere and tell me that I have to stay strong? Huh?"

"And what about your daughter, James?" Spock retaliated quickly. "Is she better off without her father?"

His mouth was running ten miles ahead of his brain at this point. "Maybe she _is_ better off without me!"

The Vulcan looked supremely unimpressed. "You do not believe that."

"Oh yeah? You don't know the _first thing_ about me!" Jim shouted as loud as he could manage.

"I know what happened to you when you were sixteen."

The bottom dropped out of the world.

Jim's blood turned to ice water in his veins. "What? What did you say?"

"I know, James." There was no revulsion in those dark eyes, no accusation...but there were truth, sympathy and just enough sadness for Jim to know he wasn't lying.

"You bastard," Jim breathed. "You read my mind while I was _unconscious_?"

"Yes."

"That's a fucking violation, are you aware of that?" Jim scathed, barely able to draw breath to speak at this point.

"Very much so and I apologise for the infringement of your privacy but it was inadvertent on my part," Spock explained, quietly. "I did not directly seek any such knowledge of you. I did not even consider such an aspect, I was simply...I found myself wishing to touch you. To hold your hand."

"You're lying," Jim spat, knowing he was not. "So you let my daughter get taken by Komack and now you're manipulating me? Is that it?"

"I would never do such a thing on basic principal alone. I only came to know of it, James...because it was already in my mind."

It sounded like some massive confession, but it made no sense and Jim was in far too much pain to try and figure it out alone.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he demanded. "Huh?"

The Vulcan's eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. "I know now, why you are so familiar to me, James. I know where it is I have seen you before. The incident when you were sixteen, that night..."

Back teeth grinding so hard he was probably scraping away enamel, Jim said, "Jesus, don't dance around the word! Rape, OK? You can say it. The night I was raped."

Several rather interesting things happened in swift procession after Jim said that. The metal railing on the side of the hospital bed in gave a pained groan as Spock's hand clenched and bent it out of shape. Spock let out a breath as though he had been holding one for a long time, his nostrils flared and something primal and frightening flashed in his eyes.

Jim stared at the mangled railing, determinedly not looking at the beautiful, furious alien.

"As you said," Spock growled. " _That_ night...something happened to me also. I believe I dreamt of what happened to you. I believe I saw the entire assault as though through your eyes."

Something was snaking around Jim's heart, something tight and terrifying.

"Bullshit," he exhaled, hoarse and almost silent. "Y-you're lying."

"I have never spoken of it to anyone, never allowed myself to fully acknowledge what it was I saw...until now," Spock was saying. "It began with a dream, but escalated the next day which is when I believe you were suffering the actual...ordeal. I lost consciousness and was subject to uncontrollable paroxysms. I _felt_ the pain you suffered, James. Every moment of it. I did not know, of course, what was happening. For a long time afterwards, I even questioned my own sanity. But now I know why I was witness to the worst ordeal of your life."

Blinking back tears, Jim managed to ask, "And why is that?"

The Vulcan leaned in close, fingers pressing oh so lightly against Jim's cheek. "Because I dreamed of you too, James Tiberius Kirk. I dreamed of you just as you just as you dreamed of me."

A strangled sob escaped his throat as he turned away. "Don't do this to me," Jim begged, voice cracking without his permission. " _Please_."

"I do not wish to bring you any further sadness," Spock assured gently. "You have suffered too much already."

"Then why are you telling me this?" he demanded, tears freely rolling down his cheeks, hot and wet. "Why?"

For the first time, Spock smiled. Actually _smiled_. It was probably the most beautiful thing Jim had seen, with the one exception of his baby. A small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, tainted with an odd kind of sadness. "Because this may be my last chance."

"What? What do you mean?" Jim asked, trying to sit forward again, but the Vulcan was reaching around the back of his beck.

"Sleep now, James. You should sleep."

He didn't feel the small pinch, he couldn't stop the wave of unconsciousness rising up. The world faded and sleep graciously took him.

* * *

 

Suppressing a yawn, Komack leaned further back in his chair and glanced in the direction of Kirk's daughter, playing quietly in the corner of the room behind a small table. Maybe this was a waste of time; maybe the Vulcan had already whisked Kirk away to his stupid home planet and used some mild meld...thing to get the truth from his genius brain. That thought sent a nasty shiver down Komack's spine though, so instead he tried to be positive. Weren't Vulcans meant to be the last chivalrous species or some such shit? Surely the green motherfucker would feel obligated on some level to get Kirk's _precious_ daughter back.

But maybe Kirk was dead; Kraal, one of the Klingon brothers, had reported that he'd injured Kirk pretty badly. If Kirk was dead then everything was fine and dandy, but if not...

He jumped when his COMM device went off and irritably jabbed at the button on his desk to answer it with a moody, "Yes?"

"I want the child."

Komack sat bolt upright, eyes flying to the screen. There he was, that troublemaking son of a bitch. He looked much worse than the last time Komack had laid eyes on him; he was walking very fast, holding the device in front of him as he made his way to where he was headed.

"Oh really?" Komack snapped, glaring at the Vulcan for all he was worth. "And _why_ am I going to oblige you?"

"Return her to me, unharmed in any way, and I will allow you to continue existing."

Though it sent a cold thread of fear throughout his nervous system, Komack managed to laugh nastily at that. "Not much of a negotiator, huh? Y'know what? No deal. I think I'll keep her here with me. Had some clients looking for something fresh and young lately. Think I'll train pretty little Lily up to work for her Uncle Richard. How's that sound, you piece of shit?"

It was almost thrilling to see those already dark eyes, blacken to furious obsidian. "This is your last chance.  Release her," the Vulcan went on, voice tighter than before.

Furious, Komack replied, "Go. Fuck. Yourself!"

He watched as Spock made a sharp left, past a drug store that looked very familiar.

"Then," he said calmly. "I am coming up." And he threw the device to the ground where it smashed.

Komack stared blankly at the dead screen for all of three seconds before scrabbling to the window. He stared down from his office at the street below, scanning for any signs of...oh shit.

There he was. Crossing the street with something bordering on homicidal intent.

He couldn't sound the alarm fast enough.

* * *

 

The first guard was a blur; Spock's limbs seemed to be moving of their own volition. The human man went down with a nasty crunch as the Vulcan strode past his limp, unconscious form and into the building. Seconds later, before he had even made it to the staircase, a shrill, and high pitched alarm rang throughout, bouncing off the walls and jarring Spock's senses for a moment.

It did nothing to frighten or deter him, though. If anything, a fresh spike of adrenaline shot through his system. Three more men came from his left, aiming weapons with intent.

"FREEZE!" they yelled. Spock paused for a moment, eyeing the weapons, before dropping so suddenly that the slow moving humans barely had time to acknowledge the movement. He rolled once and sprang to his feet directly in front of the men; by the time they'd managed to express shock, Spock's fists slammed into their faces. He snatched the weapons, cracking two in half, and stowing away the other. There was blood on his knuckles; thick, odorous human blood, red and sticky. He ignored that too, savagely pleased at the violence he was inflicting, his only thought of retrieving Lily Kirk pulsating through him with an urgency he knew was not entirely his own.

He closed his eyes, controlling his breathing and his blood flow. He heard footsteps; boots, heavy footfalls and at least twenty or so pairs. Of course, Komack wasn't going to have four or five guards; he'd have an arsenal. It was irrelevant, though. Spock could feel the energy pounding through his blood; furiously thrilled at having a chance, after thousands of years of civilisation, to be able to indulge in that side of Vulcan nature...it was burning him alive with the need to break, conquer...prove himself.

Prove he was somehow worthy, even though he had badly failed James and that thought alone was sufficient to have him mercilessly ploughing through the oncoming tide of bodies. He cleverly twisted them and used them as shields, so the humans were simply shooting each other in swift procession until they scattered and fell beneath the blows and impact of the Vulcan's impeccably trained tactics. Some dead, some not. It did not matter. All that mattered was Komack and the safe retrieval of James's child.

The second floor presented something of a more complex problem and Spock sensed it immediately.

It seemed empty, at first glance. Spock strained for sounds that might indicate the presence of others and he felt, rather than heard, two large beings moving around with deliberate silence. Klingons; the same ones that had injured James.

Spock moved through the empty desks, only mildly obscured by glass walls and dividers. The alarm continued to ring shrilly in his ears and Spock turned, aimed the weapon at the wall and obliterated the cause of the sound.

One perfect moment of silence before the pain exploded out of nowhere.

The first was wrought like steel and impacted hard over his face. Spock stumbled slightly backwards, but regained footing and swung around landing a series of blows to the face of the large, looming Klingon. As he moved into an attempt to apply a pinch to the thick, muscular neck, there was yet another explosion of pain, this time radiating through his back. The second brother, behind him. He felt himself being lifted and then thrown.

He went through the glass, jagged edges tearing at his flesh with spite. Spock landed on a desk and before he could take another breath there was a fist coming at his face already. He blocked it, deflected it with all he had and swung his right foot up hard into the Klingon's face. The enormous being ignored it and smiled grimly, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. Spock rolled off the desk, landing on all fours, but not quite quick enough. The shorted brother crashed through the glass, feet first and landed right behind Spock once more, massive hands clawing at his throat. The air was gone, sucked right out of him and Spock could do nothing for a moment as he felt himself being lifted into the air by the throat while the Klingon brothers laughed throatily, eyeing him with a hunger that his ancient blood recognised.

They were preparing to kill him; snap his neck and be done with it. Spock's vision swam dangerously; a purple haze, then dark grey and any moment...black. But no. He had to fight, had to get the little human child back from Komack's clutches.

With every ounce of strength he had, he swung his arm forward and then back, crooking it so the sharp point of his elbow collided spectacularly with the Klingon's ribcage. He let out a tremendous roar and Spock dropped to the ground, who wasted no time in sweeping his feet from beneath him. Once the Klingon was flat on the ground, Spock went for the throat. He grabbed, twisted and _squeezed_ until it made a sickening crunching sound and the Klingon's fiery eyes turned oddly calm and blank.

It was the brother's howl that sent Spock running to reposition himself somewhere more advantageous. The furious Klingon was ripping his way through the narrow columns and dividers, throwing desks aside in his path for retribution for his brother. Here, Spock had the advantage; he was graceful, nimble and impressively quick whereas this angry Klingon had all the grace of a heavily pregnant Gorn. He stumbled, lost his footing and bellowed his frustration.

Spock could see the phaser close by; it was all he would require to end the wild animal chasing behind him. He was very close when yet again, something collided with him from behind. The Klingon had thrown a table at him; it broke around his body and fell hard, face smashing into the cold, smooth floor in such a way that his teeth ached and screamed in protest. There were hands on the scruff of his neck now, yanking him upwards once again. He let the tension drop out of his body, acted as though he had given all he could and was worn through now. Let his eyes close as the heavy, irregular breaths of the Klingon washed over his face.

He waited on seconds until he felt the Klingon's stance shift, preparing to deliver that killing blow and then all the energy and strength snapped into place, whipcord fast and Spock's hand came up like lightening...tore at his throat and pulled.

Pink blood splattered across his face wetly; in his eyes, mouth, everywhere. He was dropped immediately and struggled to catch himself before impacting once again. The Klingon twitched uselessly and poured blood from the neck. Spock wiped his face with his sleeve and walked away in silence towards the door at the very end of the massive office space.

Komack's office.

* * *

 

The door slid open silently and Komack tightened his grip on the child, holding her to his chest, phaser pressed into her back. The Vulcan looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a meat grinder, but he was still standing; still as intimidating as ever and those black eyes were fixed on him. 

"Admiral," he said quietly, coming into the room as though he had a scheduled appointment and hand not cut a bloody path through Komack's best men to get to where he was standing.  Those eyes moved to Kirk's child for a moment before returning to Komack.  "Hand her to me."

Komack sneered. "And what?  You'll walk away and never say a word to the authorities?  I think not!"

"Hand her to me and I will not harm you to point of death," Spock suggested, still in that controlled voice.  He was moving very slowly, an almost invisible circle around Komack and the child. Like a shark or a panther.  "Hand her to me and you can live to regale your cell mates with this intriguing tale."

"How about I kill you, then her?  How does that sound?" Komack snarled, turning the phaser from the girl towards Spock, furious at the alien's arrogance.

But it was a mistake.  The Vulcan moved, obscenely fast towards him.  Komack panicked, fired a shot but wasn't fast enough to drop him. The Vulcan was suddenly behind Komack and he felt a strange pinch in the back of his neck. It was like a tiny electric shock.

"I got you," Komack gasped, as the Vulcan moved away, green blood flowing from his right shoulder.

"Yes," Spock sighed.  "You did. But I also got you."

Komack watched the gun had fall from his fingers and then he realised he couldn't move.  Every main muscle in his body was frozen; he was able to twitch his fingers and toes, blink his eyes and use his mouth but he couldn't move from the position he had been when Spock had pinched the back of his neck.

Lily Kirk slipped out of his arms and dropped neatly to her feet.  Komack watched, numb with shock, as the Vulcan knelt down in front of her with a kind smile.

"Lily," he said softly, as though he wasn't injured at all.  "I am a friend of your Daddy." He held up a small silver locket which Komack vaguely recognised as the locked Kirk wore all the time.  The little girl took it with a smile.

"Are we going to see my Daddy?" she asked.

"Yes, we are," he told her.  "Can you wait outside for me for one minute?"

Lily Kirk glanced backwards at Komack.  "Goodbye Mister," she said and left the room.

The moment the doors swished shut, Komack snarled at the Vulcan, "What the fuck have you done to me?"

Spock stared placidly at Komack before replying, "I placed a certain amount of pressure on a nerve in your neck."

"Th-that's it?" Komack gasped, because pain was slowly generating in every part of his stiff, immovable body.

"In a deeply forbidden place," Spock told him, pressing his hand to the wound in his shoulder which was still sizzling. "It is called the kiss of the Vulcan."

Another bolt of agony tore at Komack's spine and he managed to spit, "Kiss my ass!"

The Vulcan's eyes were dark and primal as he stepped forward, close enough to Komack could see three kinds of blood all over him; pink, red and green.

"All the blood in your whole body alters its flow and travels to your head.  It stops there, never comes back down.  In the last painful moments of your wretched existence, you will bleed from your mouth ears, nose and finally your eyes.  You will die in slow agony and it is still too good a death for one such as you."

Komack could taste blood now, he was feeling sick and dizzy, paralysed with fear.

"Fuck you!" he managed, blood dribbling down his chin, starting to run from his nose now.

"I could have killed you quickly, Admiral Komack," Spock said, looking him dead in the eyes.  "But you are not worthy of a good death.  The pain you have inflicted upon the countless innocents who placed their trust in you, only to be violated and broken, is being revisited upon you and it is still not sufficient."

"James Kirk was never innocent!" Komack screamed, blood flying from his lips. "He was a fucking whore before he ever came to me!"

He waited for the blow, praying for it but the Vulcan simply allowed a shadow of a smile to pass through his eyes.

"You are an insult to your species," he said. "Enjoy these last minutes."

He turned and left Komack alone, the agony creeping hotter and hotter through his veins and his head started to feel engorged and swollen, full of liquid.

When his eyes started to weep, he wished he had angered the Vulcan enough to make him rip his head off.  Blood was gushing from everywhere, just like Spock had said.  He was dying, as the alien had said, in agony.  He felt sick with it, like his insides were cooking and bubbling up into his throat.  He was going to die and for what?

All for one worthless whore, all for one boy he had decided to refuse entry to.  James T. Kirk. Something passed through him in those last, terrible moments; it could almost have been regret but it was short lived and soon enough the world was spinning around, bidding a gruesome farewell.  His vision blurred, body convulsed one last time and he fell, dead before he hit the floor, without a mark on him; the first human in one hundred years to die by way of the kiss of the Vulcan.

* * *

 

S'chn T'gai Spock observed the sleeping human with an intensity that he knew would be considered quite unbecoming of a Vulcan.  He could even feel some of the medics stare at him as they came to check on James, somewhat baffled by the amount of sleep the young man was indulging in as they left. He knew he should already be leaving for his home planet, that there was much to be done there and endless reports to be filled out.  He should not be sitting beside the young man, watching him rest.  He _knew_ this, but it didn't really seem to make any impact upon his sense of motivation.

A few feet away, the little girl slept as well; peacefully curled on a small cot one of the nurses had kindly wheeled in for her.  Her blonde curls framing her face, so similar to her father's.  Spock could see no aspect of the child that did not relate to or reflect James Kirk.  There was no visible trace of another in the child's obvious heritage for which, Spock knew, James must be endlessly grateful.

He exhaled slowly, trying to control the emotions that threatened to rear up inside him whenever he thought about it.  The horrific event to which Spock had somehow bore witness to.

Unconsciously, his hand moved to James' and moved his index finger over the outer palm of the younger boys skin; it send thrills of delight and bittersweet recognition shocking through him, demanding attention and acknowledgement.  The truth was obvious now, even if it did beggar belief somewhat.  This human was the container of the soul that had sought him out through dreams his entire life.  This young boy was the reason he had not been able to form the bond with T'Pring.  There was a pre-existing bond there, hidden and dormant and wholly mysterious in its origins, but very much alive and real.

With a small sigh, he leaned across and placed a certain amount of pressure on the appropriate nerve, causing James to stir and eventually, wake.

Those brilliant blue eyes were unfocused at first, searching for something solid to land upon. When they found Spock, recognition flooded through them.  A mass of emotions followed and Spock felt each one pass through him in turn, connected as he was.

"My daughter," James whispered, voice hoarse with disuse.

Allowing himself only the smallest of smiles, Spock indicated with his eyes to the right, where Lily Kirk lay sleeping.  James followed the gaze and his mouth fell open.  The feeling that rushed through James was unprecedented; an almost dizzying amount of happiness and relief pulsing through him in such a way that his chest wanted to burst open with it.  Tears welled in the younger boy’s eyes as he squeezed Spock's hand hard enough to hurt.

"You..." he managed. "How did you...?"

"It was no trouble, James," he replied softly. "She is quite lovely."

James nodded, unable to say much of anything else and the pressure on Spock's hand didn't seem to be easing off.  It took the young human a few seconds to remember what he knew about Vulcan sensitive points before he let go abruptly, blushing furiously. 

"Sorry," he croaked.  "Didn't mean to."

"There is nothing to apologise for," Spock told him, wanting to make it clear that James should feel comfortable touching him whenever he wanted, but then that wasn't right, was it?  Such levels of intimacy were not natural and it was unfair to expect anything of the poor, abused boy. Spock shook himself.  "I should...be leaving.  I _am_ leaving.  I have many tasks to complete and ensuring your safety in the upcoming procedures is one of them."

James looked up sharply from his sleeping daughter. "You're leaving?  Why?  What?   _Why_?"

Spock faltered for a moment, halfway between standing and sitting; a most graceless pose.  "I should not interrupt your time any further, you and your daughter..."

"Why are you leaving?" James pressed, sitting up with effort. "Who the hell gave you permission to leave?"

A little affronted, Spock replied, "I have responsibilities to attend to, on Vulcan."

There was something calculating in the younger boy's eyes for a moment, and then he said, "So when are we leaving?"

"I am going to take the eight sixteen shuttle to...we?  I beg your pardon, James, but I must have misheard you..."

James rolled his eyes. "You so did not, Vulcan super hearing and all that.  You heard me.  We're coming too.  You promised us protection.  Well, I don't feel very protected, sitting in wearing nothing but a handkerchief by glass windows in the middle of a city I'm pretty well known throughout."

"But your daughter..."

"Likes the heat," James said with a shrug.  "And learns languages real fast.  Plus I'm gonna bet she gets on real good with the guy who saved her life."

There was a moment when Spock and James did nothing but stare at one another before Spock said, "And her father?"

James grinned. "Her father likes the heat too.  Learns everything real fast, is sick of this planet and is falling head over heels for a pretty boy Vulcan who can't bluff for shit."

"You would come with me?" Spock asked very quietly, uncertain that he wasn't dreaming.

"We _are_ coming with you.  You think I spent all those years dreaming about you, just to let you fly away back into the stars without me?"

"James, there _are_ no stars without you."

The smile that split his face was one of the most stunning things Spock had ever seen.  "And that is the absolute _worst_ line I have ever heard, but it is gonna be the one I fall for."

_-Fin-_

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Bex.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed! I'm bringing over all my fic from FF.Net and it's taking ages, so bear with me. I may at some point write a short one shot sequel to this. Reviews are life. 
> 
> Bex.


End file.
